


A Spark, A Flame, A Fire

by callmearcturus



Series: A House Built, and Other Royal Fuckups [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Derse/Prospit Royalty, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Negotiations, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-16 21:58:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 56,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8118997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmearcturus/pseuds/callmearcturus
Summary: Deep in Derse's shadowy core languishes the stolen second-in-line to the Prospitian throne. He plays the part of reluctant Ambassador, though rather than politics he finds himself juggling the heavy heart of Derse's Prince, which he regrets ever asking for, and charting out his new life far from the Sunburst Court. Jake is grimly sure he'll never be warm again.





	1. take a body to tundra

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A House Built](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6548650) by [sunflowerwonder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerwonder/pseuds/sunflowerwonder). 



> Authorized sequel to sunflowerwonder's [A House Built](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6548650/chapters/14982379). I suggest reading it first; it's a brisk read and staggeringly good writing. 
> 
> Thank you Loft for the endless assistance and Hex for the encouragement.

The total upheaval of your life is like a storm spinning in from the sea. It’s harsh, merciless, and takes a few buildings down with it, leaves the air tasting like salt and despair.

But eventually it is over, and you’re left amid the scattered pebbles of glass and cracked lumber.

Jane leaves you behind to the tender mercies of Derse, and… life goes on. The Prospitan delegation leaves, and they do not return.

It takes a week for it to sink in. Until then, you spend your time in the same room you and Jane had shared, overlooking the road from the castle. No familiar colors or banner arrive, only the violet standards and silver claws of Derse and various emblems of other neighboring kingdoms come to take, to negotiate, to trade.

You sit by the window for long hours in your first week living in Derse, and wait for your princess to come. Then, when it’s clear no one is coming for you, you watch the new parties entering the castle walls and wonder if they, like Jane, came prepared to do business.

 

* * *

 

_Try not to worry about me too much, though I know it will be hard. Adjusting to life here will take time, but it’ll come, and I can do it. I can handle the Prince. However, the young princess...! She’s ever the handful, if you remember._

 

* * *

 

Life goes on, even if you have to hurry to catch up with it. Coming out of your fugue finds you coming into winter. This far south, the cold snap is much stronger. You can feel it starting in the mornings, waking to progressively darker, cloudier mornings to roll over and stare at the fireplace across the room.

Rose pours an extra cup of tea when you finally make your way to the drawing room she and Dave like best (or, that they submit to loitering in when Dirk shoos them out of his room). It’s dark, all the curtains drawn and an entire hive’s worth of beeswax candles lighting the room. You quietly wince at the twin’s lack of understanding of cost, and wonder if its her childish lack of regard or a Dersian inclination towards excesses (Derse is not in the same dire straits that Prospit is, after all). You also wonder which poor servant is in charge of keeping all the candles lit.

A porcelain cup is placed in front of you. There is a slice of lemon and two sugar cubes on the saucer, the exact accouterments you prefer with your tea. “If you’re done hiding, you should ask Dirk for a better room already.”

You dump the cubes into your tea, stir them, squeeze the lemon between your fingers to spray the citrus into the cup. You lick your fingertips, make a face at the tartness. “Sorry?”

She rolls her eyes, exaggerated in that youthful way, like she’ll roll her head clean off if she’s not careful. The way she swings wildly between a child playing at an adult’s maturity and _this_ is somewhat comforting to see. Under the barbed remarks and her futuresight, she is still so young.

“You’re not the one who should be apologizing. It’s only going to get colder if you remain in the guest wing. We’re further inside the walls here, and they keep the fires going.” She hauls herself up onto a giant armchair; there are others set lower to the ground, more suited for her size. She never used them.

After a pot and a half of tea shared between you, Dave nudges the great dark wood door open and slips inside just two seconds before Dirk follows. His pale cheeks are bright red, and he makes a beeline for Rose, shoving his hands against her knees. She yelps, and shoves him away.

“S’what you get for not coming along!” Dave tells her, pawing at her some more while his sister shoves herself further back on the chair, trying to get out of reach of his cold hands. “The lake’s starting to freeze. Dirk’s going to teach us skating this year.”

“Not anytime soon,” Dirk intones from the other side of the room. He keeps his distance, stands by the fireplace and tugs his tight gloves off his hands with his teeth, holding his hands out to the flames. “The ice has to be solid before we ever consider it.”

“Dave, enough,” Rose snaps eventually, fending him off. He beams, terrifically pleased, and bounds around the little round table to you.

You touched the back of your hand to the teapot before asking, “Do you want some tea? Might warm you up.”

“Speaking of,” Rose says loudly. She turns in her chair, kneeling on the cushion to stare over the high armrest at Dirk. “Jake needs a room in the royal wing. The guest quarters are cold, and the winter snap will be here soon.”

Dirk turns at the hips, watches as you refill your cup and give it to the younger prince. You meet his eyes over Dave’s head.

“If it’s no trouble,” you say quietly.

“It’s not.” Dirk nods to the door and waits patiently for you to stand and follow him.

 

* * *

 

“I’d assumed you’d prefer the distance,” Dirk points out when you’re alone and walking the royal family’s halls. You remember this part of the castle vaguely, just enough to recall which set of doors leads to the Prince’s suite. 

“Distance from what? Lit fireplaces?” It’s a weak attempt at humor, but it makes Dirk… not laugh, but exhale sharply in what might’ve been, with years of training and refinement and effort, a laugh.

“You are welcome to ask the staff for whatever you like, but there are more hands in this part of the castle, yes.”

You pass Dirk’s room without comment. Here, you notice the rooms have more sensible single doors instead of the ornate carved double doors. Also, many of them do not have handles. You step closer to one such door, frowning.

Dirk reaches around you, his arm barely brushing yours as he pushes the door open.

You walk in. The room is larger than the guest suite; there’s a living area with bookshelves (bare, for now), a few chairs covered with black cloth, and a gleaming metal stove with a kettle sat on top. Through a shadowed archway, you can see a large bed, and a tall window.

“This one overlooks the courtyard,” Dirk points out.

“The view is nice.” For Derse, at least.

“You may be assailed by small, pushy children if you settle here. I’m not certain that isn’t the entire reason Rose suggested this. She enjoys having new people to play with.” There’s warmth in his voice. It’s terribly compelling, but also makes your fingers curl at the sound, as if you’ve caught yourself intruding on something you shouldn’t.

“Does she,” you say.

His eyes are sharp on yours, and you look away quickly. Your gaze falls on the table by the fireplace. It’s bare but for a silver sphere attached to one long spoke. You pick it up.

“For the door. A servant will come, air out the room, put the handle on. It’s yours.” His hands are behind his back. It draws the line of his shoulders well, handsome in a lean way. He inclines his head to you. “I have matters to attend to.”

“I’ll see you at dinner then, your highness,” you blurt out as he makes for the door.

Dirk stills, looks back at you. His face is blank, but you nevertheless get the impression he’s confused.

At least that makes two of you. You sigh as you drop yourself onto a chair, only to sneeze at the displaced dust.

 

* * *

 

 

_There’s enough of Derse that’s palatable. The food is rather nice, if you’ll excuse the wordplay, Jane. It’s richer than our staples back home, more varied. Not a meal has passed without the opportunity to try something brand new. I’m enjoying it._

_The Prince says the seers expect snow soon. I’m quite excited to see_ real _snowfall, more than the dusting we got around the palace. Not as excited as Dave, but I doubt I’m physically capable of such levels of exuberance._

_I’ll miss our cool November rains and that red canopy we sat under in the garden, how the rain pattered against it. I don’t think snow makes any sound when it falls._

 

* * *

 

“Do you never go hunting?” you ask Dirk one night. His quarters have become a somewhat open place. More than once, the twins have dragged you along with them to invade his sitting room, and your hesitation to be there has eroded away gradually. It’s nearly a communal space now.

Tonight is calm. Dirk sits by the lamp, reading. It’s an encyclopedia of poisonous flora; you recognize it from Rose having read it just a week before. Dirk seems careful to be aware of where the princess’ interests meander to, trying to keep up with her. You find it reassuring.

For your own part, you stand by the fire with a glass of wine. You like to have one before bed. The nightmares of Derse have not worked their claws into you yet, but your restless nights are growing more frequent.

“Hunting,” Dirk repeats looking up at you. When you nod, his eyebrows come together. “I have gone hunting.” It’s an unacceptably vague answer, and you wait him out. “It’s an activity many foreign delegations insist on. They want to take home the pelt of a white Dersian rabbit. Or shoot down the crows we allegedly use as our spies. Why?”

 _Allegedly_. Derse is a kingdom of strange magic, and you’ve definitely seen Dave feeding the crows before. Talking to them.

“I take it that if I wanted to invite you out on a hunt, you’d respectfully decline?”

Dirk shakes his head. “You want to go out on a hunt.” His book closes with a little _fwimp_ noise, set aside as he stands by the fireplace, with you.

“It’d be nice.” You rock the rim of the glass against your lip, watching him through the firelight and the dark fringe of your hair.

“You want a gun.”

Your fingers tighten on your glass. “I know how to handle one, if that’s your concern.”

“My concern,” Dirk repeats quietly. He’s being difficult, even more so than you’ve come to expect from him.

“I’ve handled firearms since I was a sprog, and I’m hardly going to run off, if _that’s_ your concern.” It’s probably not wise to snap at Dirk when asking for a favor, but it stings you. Couldn’t he… pretend to trust you?

Dirk crosses his arms, closing off, and it hurts. You don’t know what he’s afraid of. Just that he’s afraid.

The backs of your fingers brush Dirk’s robe. “Am I your companion, your highness?” You let the alternative sit unsaid.

“You’re something,” Dirk murmurs. He’s otherwise still. The velvet of his robe is deep enough to almost be fur, and warm. The texture is nice against your skin in a distracting way. It’s probably inappropriate to pet the Prince. Or unkind.

Your hand settles on his bent elbow, thumb brushing the robe to and fro.

“Fine,” Dirk says eventually. “As long as you have accompaniment. For your sake.”

You can’t help the surprise on your face. “So you’ll…”

“No. Not me.” He turns away, arm sliding from your grip.

 

* * *

 

The older princess, Roxy, is a far better shot than you. 

You’re fairly certain Roxy is better than you in many, many ways. It was your impression of her from the moment she strode out of the castle in a white fur hat and matching stole, a long rifle settled against her shoulder. You’d chosen a smaller bolt-action, something that fit your hands well enough, though it made you nostalgic for your own collection back home.

Perhaps if you ask, Jane will send it to you.

The grounds outside the castle walls are impressive, if blanketed in white, making the journey a trudge. Still, the castle is behind you, out of sight.

You’re unsure if its better. Even away from the crescent reliefs in the stonework and the monochromatically purple palette, you still feel so far from home.

“Don’t fall behind, sunspark!” Roxy calls over her shoulder to you. “Dirk would be so upset with me, and I ain’t got time of his laconic snitfits.”

You lift your legs higher, hurrying after her. “I’m here, your majesty. Simply acclimating to all the snow.”

“Aw, is it your first? They don’t get cold like this up in Prospit, do they?” She clicks her tongue, voice bright and cheery against the dour grey sky, white ground, and severe dark trees ahead.

“We’re not annually assaulted by this mountain of icy fluffy botheration, no!” There’s a stitch in your ribs. Surely you can’t be tired already. You’ve spent entire days afield before, out in the countryside with your cousins in the early summer. In Derse, the cold seems to stick in your lungs.

Despite the elements being against you in a way that seems like a personal affront, you tough it out until the midday, grasping onto your old memories to bolster your steps when the borrowed swigs from Roxy’s flask don’t do the trick. You magnificently fail to catch anything. Roxy, for her part, doesn’t bring any kills back either, mostly because she was more concerned with games than game. More than once, she’d asked you, “What, sweet ambassador, do you spy with your pretty emerald eyes?” and taken aim at whatever you could mention.

She was _undoubtedly_ a better shot than you.

There isn’t a trace of malice in her voice as she laughs and tells you, “You were _not_ built for Derse.”

You have to swallow your ire regardless.

 

* * *

 

 _It’s not December yet and I admit to being tired of the cold. It gets into the bones. I fear I’ll never defrost again, or whoever’s left under the layer of ice won’t be the person I remember._  

_I might bother the Prince for warmer linens. Or anything to endure this._

 

* * *

 

The stillness that settles over the castle as winter fully descends on Derse feels like hibernation. Before long, everyone’s taking to sleeping in; only Dirk and the most essential castle staff are awake before the late afternoon. On more than one occasion, you find the twins in their pyjamas at noon, carrying a tray of snacks back to their room to crawl back into bed. They are such clever children, really. 

It assuages your guilt about it. Staying abed for much of the day comes more easily after you catch Rose sprinting down the hallway of the royal family’s wing, trying to escape the cold bite of the stone floors on her bare feet. After that display of regal composure, it’s much easier to order an enormous pot of tea and stay in bed, the covers pulled to your waist, a lilac knitted shawl (a gift from Roxy) around your shoulders as you read. It’s cozy, even if you have to periodically tuck your hands into your shirt to warm them back up.

For now, you don’t need extra light to read by. Your bed is near the window, and while the sun isn’t shining, it is _bright_ outside, all that snow blinding to look directly at. It’s plenty to read by if you tilt the book properly.

It does not escape you, the weird poetry of it. Of course Derse is a kingdom lit by reflected light.

Your window overlooks the courtyard. Movement draws your attention. By now, it’s become uncommon for anyone to voluntarily leave the warmth of the castle.

Today, though, you have a perfect view of a gathering outside. A few people in light armor stand in a loose circle. Between them, you recognize the shape of the Prince. He’s hardly dressed for the outdoors, in something dark but formfitting and devoid of furs or thick wools.

You lean in closer to peer at him. He’s spinning something around his wrist. A long wooden stick? It rotates around his wrist in showy, practiced ease as he turns and paces in the circle like some caged feline.

Someone from the circle darts forward, holding a stick-- a sparring sword, you realize-- of their own.

Dirk leaps away, so fast his movement’s hard to track, and turns, slams his sword into the woman’s so hard you think you can dimly hear the _crack_ of wood against wood.

Before, you’d wondered what his weapon of choice was. Now, it’s perfectly clear as he prowls forward, snapping his sword up in relentless, precise strikes, driving his partner back to the line. The moment she’s out of the little arena, someone else steps in, and Dirk spins on his toe, swinging wide. The new opponent lifts their sword to block. If they hadn’t, you can only imagine how staggered they’d be by the blow.

Dirk spins again, then pivots and takes a wide strike; his partner scrambles back, unprepared. At that, Dirk stills, lowers his sword, and you can vaguely see him talking, his partner nodding along and bowing.

You slide your finger into your book and close it, drawn in by the display.

He’s really very graceful. It’s a hypnotic show, and you watch all the way to the end, to where Dirk stands with the soldiers and guards still on their feet, several of them sitting nearby, nursing injuries and listening to their Prince’s instructions. He’s breathing hard, but he moves with poise as he hands off his practice sword and dismisses the lot.

When he turns at last to return to the castle, you're busy reflecting how his hair matches the snowfall around him. So, you’re caught off guard when you see him tilt his head back and unerringly focus on your window.

Graceless and caught off guard, you duck out of view with a gasp, clutching your book to your chest.

You don’t look out the window again for a long time.

 

* * *

 

He’s no longer a stranger to you. The _foreign Prince_ is less so when you’ve been living in his company for months. 

You know things. You know Dirk hates hunting and any sports. You know he adores puzzles and cerebral games, and has so many that the room adjacent to his contains the rest of his collection because it won’t all fit in his drawing room. He reads voraciously, regardless of genre, but has extremely discerning tastes that you consider a little snobby. It’s an exact mirror of his taste in food and drink, which is practically non-existent.

He’s more elegant with a sword than on the ballroom floor. He seems most at ease when the twins are invading his quarters. He reserves Thursday nights to himself, no official business or couriers allowed to bother him after sundown.

He also takes more baths than any other member of royalty you’d ever met. At first, you simply noticed the maids seemed to _always_ be carrying towels and little wooden pails of flowers and astringent salts, bundled herbs and things hurrying through the halls every night. With the royal family all clustered here, it made sense. But they went to Dirk’s room more than anyone else’s.

It was inevitable that you’d cross paths with him freshly bathed. Tonight, you’re playing a game with Rose and Dave on the floating checkered cube. More accurately, you’re playing against Rose as her brother sleeps against her shoulder. She shoots Dave silent, annoyed glances periodically, but takes care not to jostle him as she takes her moves and keeps her voice low as he sleeps.

Twenty minutes into the game, you’re certain it’s a foregone conclusion. The game is remarkably harder than the chess you’re used to. With a big, geometric battlefield, you are unsure how to approach her pieces. You’re even more unsure what the strategy behind her moves are.

In time, Dirk appears out of the dark archway from his bedroom. His hair is damp, and his clothes are loose and airy. You immediately worry he’ll catch cold like that.

He leans on the back of Rose’s chair for a moment, taking in the state of the ‘board’ from her side, then circles to your side. A hand braces on the arm of your chair with careful distance from your elbow. There’s a flush to his skin you’ve not seen since you first met, and you’re fairly certain he smells like lavender and soapbark.

You glance sideways at him. His eyes are on the game. “Would you allow a suggestion, Jake?”

You nod, unable to speak, and watch him move one of your knights, angling it easily about the corner of the cube to a new face.

He hovers there, close but not imposing, as you continue to play. Every few moves, he offers another suggestion, sometimes murmurs a strategic thought to you.

On the other side of the game, Rose’s frown progressively deepens. “You are going to sit there and allow him to take your victory from you?” she asks tartly.

Dirk shakes his head, moves a piece to take hers, palming her black bishop. “Accepting help is not accepting defeat, Princess. It can be quite the opposite, really.”

Despite Dirk’s advisement, Rose still takes the game. You’re certain it’s much closer than Rose would have liked, from the way she overzealously knocks over your king, sending it to the rug below the cube. Dirk’s lips curve slightly as he graciously bends to retrieve it, hands it to you.

Your fingers do not brush.

“It’s late,” Dirk tells her. “You can stew in your own room tonight and contemplate retribution another day. The adults have important matters to discuss.”

Rose looks up at Dirk, lip jutting slightly. “I sincerely doubt it. Also, you should carry Dave. This is the most sleep he’s gotten in a week.”

Dirk nods, and bends to lift the young prince into his arms. Dave’s cornsilk hair rest against the crook of Dirk’s arm, almost spun silver against the habitual purple of Dirk’s tunic. “I’ll return,” Dirk tells you, and follows Rose out of the room.

In his absence, you are left holding the king in hand. After a moment’s contemplation, you begin reassembling the cube with its pieces. You’re only just getting used to the way the pieces attach to the sides of it. It’s such a gratuitous show of magic, commonplace in Derse but still strange to you.

You’ll grow accustomed to it eventually, you fear.

Your Prince lets himself back in, shuts the door behind him. It seems you don’t have the same curfew the twins do.

He joins you in reassembling the game, silently correcting the positions of some of the pieces you’ve placed.

“Is there a point to it?” You ask, watching Dirk place his hand atop the cube and coax it down to its spot above the table. “Having the board in more dimensions? Or is it some sort of conversation piece?”

“And who would I converse with about it,” Dirk says. “The normal chess board is a challenge in and of itself. A limited arena to work with. But the expanded board comes closer to simulating large engagements. The path between you and your opponent is not always a straight line. This gives the illusion of the wider stage and the effects of terrain, forces you to consider a wider picture and be aware of your surroundings.” He meets your eyes. “Your usual?”

You have a usual. It’s the fruity white wine you think he keeps around just for your nightcaps. Suddenly, you wonder if he has a little mental list of facts about you, like you do him.

“No, I…” You bite down a sigh. “It’s no fun at all to admit, but I think the wine’s not holding up its end of the deal in regards to warding off the nightmares. Last few nights have been exceptionally grim.”

“Any voices yet?” Dirk asks.

“No? Are voices going to be a thing? What sort of voices?”

“Theories vary.” It’s a non-answer, and honestly you’re relieved to hear it; you’re not sure you’re up for whatever the details are at this hour. “Let’s try something else.”

 _Something else_ is a hot pot of tea with petals of some pale yellow flower added in. You watch Dirk prepare a large mug’s worth for you, using a little silver sieve to pour the dark liquor through when its finished steeping. Another clear liquid from a vial is added before the entire steaming drink is handed off to you.

It scarcely tastes like tea, honestly. It’s sweet without the bitterness of the leaves, and floral. A kissing cousin to chamomile, but even then it’s unfamiliar. Dirk insists you drink it without sugar, for some important alchemic reasons apparently.

Whatever the drink is, it’s a strong sedative. Not overpowering, but quite firm regardless. By the time you’re finished and you stand to return to your room, you sway as though you’ve had _several_ glasses of wine. But the nausea you associate with drunkenness isn’t there. Just… the unsteadiness.

Dirk retreats to his room once more, and comes back to hand you a candle of all things. It’s a foggy blue color with flecks of _something_ inside. “Between this and the elixir, you’ll sleep well.”

When he holds it out to you, he holds the top of it between his fingertips. And when you shuffle back to your room, he guides you, his hand carefully hovering above the small of your back. Only when you stumble does he make contact, helping you along.

“Goodnight, Jake,” Dirk bids you softly at the door, leaving you there to make your own way into your chambers.

You feel… bereft.

The thought doesn’t occur to you immediately. You climb into bed and carefully light the candle on your silver bedside table. With your head on the pillow, you spend a moment watching the wavering yellow flame, right on the edge of sleep.

It’s then, as you close your eyes and sink peacefully into the embrace of the sedative, you realize the Prince has stopped touching you.

 

* * *

 

_Your insistence is admittedly wearing me down, Jane. Of course it’s lonely. I think it’s more lonely than you would expect. Definitely more so than I anticipated._

 

* * *

 

When you were left to the tender mercies of the Dersian royal family, you were afraid of the Prince touching you. 

He never does.

You live in his home, see him daily, spend time in his quarters, drink wine and tea in his company, and wait for the feeling of his calloused fingers on your skin.

It never comes, and you don’t know why.

Once you notice it, you can’t _stop_. After all, it’s a problem. This is what you are _here_ for, the price for Prospit’s future. If the Prince grows tired of you, what becomes of your homeland and of Dirk’s generosity?

Prospit surely won’t be bought with a shiny token that’s already losing its luster.

You can’t resist testing it now that you’re aware its happening. Normally, news of Prospit is given to you by one of the servants offering you summaries from the strategy meetings. They are a regular comfort to you.

Today, you decide to go to the source, and let yourself into the war room just before suppertime. It takes effort to catch Dirk on his own outside his chambers. Effort, and more than a bit of obtrusive hovering, watching from outside as his advisors excuse themselves. When the last is finally gone, you slip inside.

Dirk’s eyes are on you the moment the door opens, eyes sharp, the effects of military strategy and boldness still hanging around him like lingering smoke. The frown on his face smooths as you enter. “Ambassador.”

“Your Highness,” you greet amiably. As you circle the table, Dirk straightens, eyes following you steadily. “I wanted to inquire about Prospit, if that’s alright.”

It is, to your utter lack of surprise. Dirk very rarely denies you anything. He stands at your side as you survey his map, the chess pieces placed around it. The reports you are given are informative, but there is no comparison to seeing the borders of Prospit again in flux, this time in your homeland’s favor as Derse bolsters and pushes the golden kingdom back into shape.

You reach to trace the lines on the map, where the valleys of Prospit butt against the harsher terrain of Alternia, near where Dirk’s fingertips rest on the table.

The Prince turns his head, looking out over the toy battlefield, and his fingers curl, fist sliding away from yours as he clears his throat.

“Your Highness?” you ask, very quietly.

He holds his gaze averted from yours. “Feel free to stay and look things over. I should--” he sidesteps away from you, hands folding behind his back. “I’ll see you at dinner, Jake.”

And just like that, he’s gone, leaving you alone with the changing landscape before you.

You should worry for the future of Prospit.

It’s... not _exactly_ first and forefront in your mind right now.

 

* * *

 

Without Dirk, the castle grows cold in a way that has nothing to do with the deep frost of winter. 

Something with the fighting demanded his attention, and he left to oversee things himself. It’s nervewracking not to have him nearby; you suddenly feel like an interloper. What worth is the Prince’s companion in the Prince’s absence?

Evidently, the twins dictate your worth now. With their brother and guardian away, you have your hands full with them. You hadn’t quite realized how much work they were until Dirk was away; Rose’s attention narrows without Dirk there to split it, and it’s a unique experience to match wits with someone so young. Dave wants completely different things, holding your hand as you walk through the courtyard to feed the crows and fisting his hand in the back of your jacket on the way back to your quarters after dinner.

You don’t mind. It’s a fine distraction from the anxiousness that’s taken you.

But there are parts that blindside you. Chiefly, how Dave becomes drawn and tired as more time passes. You aren’t sure what it is, but the young prince looks too worn for his age, and Rose takes to pulling him along from place to place, like a beloved stuffed animal more than a brother, like she’s worried she’ll misplace him.

It’s not a huge shock when, three weeks into Dirk’s absence, Dave crawls into bed with you in the middle of the night, his face gaunt, the pale skin under his eyes smudged darkly from lack of sleep. He brings his own blanket, lays against your side, and curls up like a cat.

He doesn’t ask permission, but peers at you with big red-limmed eyes until you smooth a hand through his hair and shut your own eyes again.

An hour later, another child shows up, her face tight and annoyed, like you’ve done her a great insult by not inviting her. She also has a blanket, and you are too exhausted to fuss as she squeezes in too, letting them push your back flush to the wall.

Dirk has said several times that the twins went through phases like this, as regular as clockwork, when sleep eluded them. You wonder how often they tended to bother Dirk. You wonder how long they waited before coming to you.

They are small enough and curled tightly together, and you find they both fit under your arm.

Three nights you let them stay with you, feeling a silent camaraderie with their unspoken misery. Something beyond Derse’s legendary night terrors. Like the heart of the castle is missing.

On the third night, another visitor happens into your quarters, so late in the night, the darkness complete and total. You can’t see anything, but can think of no one else who would enter your rooms. It’s Dirk, or an assassin, and an assassin probably would not run a hand softly through Rose’s sleep-mussed hair.

“Dirk,” you whisper, trying to reach for your spectacles with Dave’s head pinning your arm in place.

Dirk plucks them up from your table, hands them to you, still without skin contact. You do get close enough to almost detect his warmth, and the phantom sensation echoes through your body, raising gooseflesh everywhere.

“I’ll take them back to their room.” He does not whisper, but his voice is naturally so even, so calm, it’s just as well. “I’m sorry they… availed themselves.”

“I don’t mind,” you say quickly. “I-- I think they just missed you.”

Dirk hums distantly, lifting Rose’s sleeping form into his arms. Despite your tiredness, you sit up and follow his example with Dave. He’s still small, but solid in your arms, heavy as you climb to your feet with his head on your shoulder.

You tuck your feet into your slippers, and shuffle along with Dirk, each of you weighed down by one of the twins. Their room is not far from your own, but the hallway is markedly colder than your room and its fireplace. Dave’s fist tightens in your bedclothes, snuffling quietly as he wiggles and tries to somehow get even closer to you.

Rose doesn’t stir as Dirk places her back in her own bed. He tucks her in thoroughly, pushing the sheets and thick purple quilt against her sides until she’s completely ensconced.

As he turns down the linens of Dave’s bed and stands back to let you set the boy down, he murmurs, “I didn’t intend to make you into their sitter, you know.”

You copy his example, tucking Dave in similarly. When both the twins are settled, you slip out of the room again, Dirk on your heels.

“No?” you finally reply, pausing as you yawn widely, nearly cracking your jaw muscles from the force of it. “Hm, then what did you intend, Your Highness?”

After three steps, you notice Dirk is not at your side anymore. Turning, you find him still standing there. His eyes are very light in the darkness of the hallway. You nearly imagine an amber glow in them, perhaps the magic of Derse hidden just behind his eyes.

“You…” Dirk looks away, mouth twisting in an unnervingly clear display of frustration. Perhaps his time away has worn him out. Perhaps it’s just _you_. “My _intentions_ hardly matter. Nothing about this arrangement has been what I anticipated.”

Oh. You are… too tired to process this right now, and you don’t know if Dirk’s in a much better state; he’s still in his riding boots and winter coat. You think he hasn’t even been back to his own chambers yet.

“Should I… apologize?” 

By the sun and stars above, there is _something_ fey in Dirk’s eyes then, bright as fireflies. Just watching him makes your fingers curl, like standing in the deep woods, so far from the sight of home you might as well be in another world, and finding a stag in your path. The stillness of a showdown.

Dirk smiles, his teeth white in the low light. It’s a mirthless, painful thing to see. “Why, ambassador,” he says quietly, “is there something you wish to apologize _for?_ ”

Now, someone’s sitting in the crosshairs, and you’ve no idea which of you it is.

Shaking his head, the spell shrugging from his frame, Dirk bids you goodnight, leaves you standing in the hallway.

By the time you crawl back into bed, the cold has left you numb. You sleep alone, fitfully.

 

* * *

 

You’re fairly certain that Dirk does not know your birthday, but he manages a present regardless. 

The entire castle smells vaguely of black powder; the entire _capital_ does, honestly. In Prospit, your major festivals come with the harvest. In Derse, they come in the middle of winter, and while Derse tends to be rather conservative, this week is starkly different. Kindling heat in the heart of ice, they celebrate survival with aplomb. And with bonfires, processions of firedancers, paper lanterns burning in the sky, and _fireworks._  

It’s a startling contrast, how the dour quiet city sets itself alight for one evening. There are so many lights outside, you have to draw the curtains over your window just to sleep; flickering gold pours in from the city deep into the night.

There is life in the kingdom of Derse. You’d have never guessed.

It’s the next day, however, your silent birthday, that really excites you. A courier brings you summons in the mid-afternoon, interrupting your card game with Roxy and Dave, and you hurry to the war room.

Dirk is sitting for once. _Lounging_ in his highbacked chair as an advisor moves pieces around, his chin balanced on his fist as he listens to a woman in military regalia speak.

No one acknowledges you as you enter. You wonder if they are simply used to the Prospitan loiterer by now, or if you’ve begun to blend in with your wardrobe of silver and violet camouflage. Keeping your head down, you circle around the table, closer to the Prince’s seat, close enough to hear.

The general is mid-report, informing Dirk that the Dersian army has successfully recovered a Prospitan mining town from Alternian grasp.

You wrap your arms around yourself and listen raptly, trying to avoid smiling openly. But it’s a big deal. Prospit has so few industrial centers in its borders, that even the loss of Locah had threatened the stability of the kingdom. Your army was so poorly outfitted as it was, and so few allies were willing to trade weapons for food, which was all you _had_.

With Locah back, Prospit could stagger back to its feet. It was a start.

As you make a nuisance of yourself, listening to the general, you see Dirk glance at you out of the corner of his eyes. His gaze flicks over you, takes in the way you’re physically covering your smile with your fingers, and nods once.

It’s not until later, after supper, after the twins had retired for the night, later when Dirk’s hand is feather light on your elbow as he escorts you back to your room after your dose of nightmare-warding elixir--   _later_ , you turn and grab his hand between both of yours, holding tightly as you smile at him. “Thank you.”

Dirk is still as placid water, but you know better. You see the slight flush around his cheeks. His hand turns, your own moving with him, lifting. You are exhausted and happy, drunk with relief that Derse’s aid is _helping_ , and you watch Dirk’s lips and wait for them to press against the back of your hand. His hand is surprisingly warm between yours. You are curious if his lips are as well.

You don’t find out. “Goodnight, Jake,” the Prince tells you, and leaves you standing there again, like each night before.

 

* * *

 

The next letter you receive from the Queen Apparent of Prospit is unexpected.

Two weeks after the liberation of Locah, a courier finds you sitting out in the courtyard. They are not familiar, and by now you assumed you knew all the messengers in Derse’s employ. They wear Dersian purple, but bear a familiar pressed gold amulet attached to the label.

“Your Grace,” they greet you, handing out a plain black tube of leather. “For your eyes only.”

“Is there trouble?” A terrible worry swells in your chest, thinking of what news could be so dire to cause a Prospitan courier to sneak into the Derse castle to deliver it to your hands.

You get no answer, only the courier’s back as they turn to go.

You consider opening the tube immediately, but there are a few corvids perched on the wrought iron fence nearby. You tuck it into your jacket and retreat up to your quarters.

There is a difference in the handwriting of the letter. It’s something you recognize; the edges of the letters are more jagged, the words tilted at an angle. It’s for once actually from Jane’s own hand. For crown royalty, there are expectations of their correspondence, the beauty of the writing impeccable and suitably regal. To that end, Jane had been using the palace scribe for years.

This isn’t a scribe’s hand, but your dear cousin’s.

You fear the worst as you scan the letter. Some sort of treachery perhaps, too secret to risk conveying through the normal channels. Or the old king’s passing, finally; it’s a foregone conclusion, but you still dread the finality of the news.

The truth is… confusing.

 _As amusing as it is to read your complaints about the cold and how you are surviving the inhospitable Derse, we are in a position to do something about it,_ she tells you as you hunch over the letter, holding it to the fireplace’s light. The curtains remain drawn, lest more of the crows make a nuisance of themselves.

_There are sympathetic people within Derse borders. One such gentleman resides in Lopan. It is only two days’ ride northerly, following the river._

You are unsure what she’s requesting until her final decree: _I would see you again in safe hands._

It’s unsigned. Plausible deniability, you figure.

You read it again, and again, waiting for it to resolve itself into something else, something less unnerving. Then, you toss it onto the logs and stand there until the paper curls and breaks into ash.

With the evidence thoroughly destroyed, you sit in one of the armchairs, your face in your hands, and think.

You did not wind up the bought companion to the Prince of Derse for your political shrewdness, but you are not an idiot.

Say that somehow this news has actually and genuinely slipped past the intelligence network of Derse. You could run for it. Steal a horse and ride to this Prospitan sympathizer. Return home to the warm kingdom of your birth. Jane could secret you to some remote stronghold, keep your existence silent until the gaze of Derse diverts. If it diverts. You can already imagine living out your days out at sea, at the island home of the royal family. For how long Derse’s reach allegedly is, they lack an armada.

You would not see the twins again. You would not spend time with Roxy and her wicked stories and crack shot. You would not watch your prince prepare your tea nor catch him staring distractedly into the middle distance or watch his weekly sparring sessions in the courtyard.

You would be home.

Or, say the Dersian spy network is as advanced as it purports to be.

You are not the best at chess, and it takes the rest of the evening to select your move.

 

* * *

 

  _My dear cousin, you know I miss you terribly._

_I miss the sunlight and the sound of the beach from my open windows. I miss dates and saltwater taffy and fresh honeycomb. I miss the golden acres west of the palace and I miss our little expeditions into the mountains. I miss the songbirds, even if they always started the day too soon. I miss my things, my room, everything I left behind._

_But I would miss our alliance more. I can’t let Prospit come to harm because of my weakness._

_I am in safe hands, I promise you. Derse will never be home, but it is slowly becoming_ a _home._

_Please don’t worry about me. Don’t divert your attention on my account. Prospit needs its queen._

_Devotedly and sincerely yours,_

_Jake English_

_Prospitan Ambassador to Derse_

 

* * *

 

For days, you worry over the decision. It’ll take a week and a half for your response to reach Jane, you know by now. For the entire period, you consider and reconsider, thinking about the stables just outside the castle walls, and how familiar you’ve grown with the northern woods. It would not be hard, and if you are lucky and the eyes of Derse have not spied Jane’s letter, you would have the advantage. 

As the second week comes to an end, you feel a weight settle over you. Not like lead, but like a mantle around your shoulders.

After an outing with Rose, accompanying her to the apothecary (at Dirk’s request, to keep the more dangerous materials out of her eager little hands), you return to your room eager to change into your bedclothes.

On your bed is a box, wrapped with a bow.

There is no tag and no card, no identifying marks, but when you unwrap it, you find a tray full of saltwater taffy inside. Each candy is a piece of a bright pastel rainbow, so cheerful and foreign they _look_ like contraband.

You are unsure if the box is warning or reward or simple acknowledgement. Dirk never mentions it, and you don’t bring it up to him.

Half the taffies wind up going to Dave. Spoiling him a little eases the tight, confused knot in your gut.

 

* * *

 

To your complete and utter surprise, the next time you and Roxy go out for a jaunt in the northlands, Dirk accompanies you.

Granted, he doesn’t look happy about it per se, not like Roxy does. When you ask Roxy if she’s free for an outing, her eyes light up in delight, and she’s ready to go within the hour, eager to get time away from the spymaster's tower.

The Prince is not one to wear his emotions on his face, even when alone with people he trusts (and you), but as you ride out from the castle walls, Dirk looks like he’s been chewing on lemons. He doesn’t actually join in the game, really, just follows you and Roxy in a way that’s bordering on sullen.

She’s a stupendously good shot, but Roxy’s not the best at hunting, given how she throws her head back and laughs at Dirk’s obvious misfortune.

“I feel terribly out of the loop,” you mention after the third time Roxy glances at Dirk’s face and lets out a graceless snort of amusement.

“It’s nothing,” Dirk says. His hands slide through his horse’s mane, and you’re pretty sure he’s braiding the hair idly, not even paying attention to the hunt.

“Usually,” Roxy says in an awful stage whisper to you, “when Dirk has to turn down proposals, he can just have a letter sent out. Because, really, who is pushy enough to _show up_ with their offer? It’s so presumptuous.”

“Rox,” Dirk says, nearly a growl.

“Proposal? As in…” The floor of your stomach drops. “ _Suitors_?”

Dirk sighs, and Roxy grins.

“Was she pretty, Your Highness? Did her big eyes get all watery and sad when you declined the offer?”

Dirk’s mouth twists as Roxy’s good natured ribbing seems to strike him, solid as a punch. He takes up reins and clicks them, urging his horse away from them in what you can’t help but think of as a retreat.

Roxy calls after him once, and has the sense to look a little contrite. “He’s so sensitive sometimes,” she offers, wincing. “It’s really unbecoming for royalty. I was only teasin’.”

You are unsure what to reply, what knowledge Roxy has, and what knowledge she _knows_ you have in return. “I imagine he wanted to be alone anyway. He’s not much for sport.”

“Nah, I was an ass. But he’ll be fine. I’ll make it up to him later.” She nods to the treeline, shifting her rifle on her back. “C’mon, sunspark, lets see what’s around and give chase. Leave Dirk to his sulk.”

You do, reluctantly, watching Dirk’s horse trot away for a moment before following Roxy.

After a few hours and a couple of quail you manage to bring back to the castle, you seek him out. You know by now, Dirk’s returned to his room and is probably having his mandatory warm bath. It’s as predictable as clockwork, how Dirk requires a long hot soak after even brief ventures out into the cold. You can’t blame him, you suppose; you’ll take one of your own later.

First, you change into some loungewear and settle in one of the chairs in front of his fireplace, availing yourself to the liquor on the mantlepiece. It’s warm in your mouth and flows into your chest sweetly, spreading heat and banishing some of the lingering chills. Your feet are still cold, and slightly damp from the snow that had found its way into your boots; propping your bare feet by the grating helps.

There’s the sound of movement through the archway into Dirk’s private quarters. As comfortable as you’ve grown to be in Dirk’s space, the fact that his bedroom has only ever been separated by an open, doorless entryway has never stopped distracting you. You keep your eyes on the flames as you wait for him, not wanting to… let your gaze stray, to catch glimpse of something you ought not.

The Prince appears from his shadowy chambers, hair damp and curling around his ears. It’s longer than you expect, every time you see it down. He holds out a blanket, which you take gratefully and spread out over your lap.

Neither of you speak as Dirk pours himself a drink and sits heavily in the other armchair. His head is tipped backward, eyes closed, his fingers curled around the crystal glass. He looks tired.

“Long day, Your Highness?”

“Hm.” Dirk doesn’t even move, and you briefly worry about the glass in his hands, than it might slip from his fingers.

If Roxy is to be believed…

Already unsure if it’s the right thing to do, you open your mouth and let the words tumble out of you with your usual lack of grace or good sense. “I got them too, back in Prospit. Fewer when Jane was named the heir apparent, but even then a few sent offers. Apparently there were enough offers, the stewards didn’t even show me all of them! Which I should perhaps find flattering, but mostly it scared the dickens out of me. But even then, I got a terrible, uh. Reputation?”

Dirk opens his eyes, focusing on you, his eyebrows lifting silently. Encouragement enough.

“On three separate occasions, it seems I was invited out by potential suitors, and… didn’t notice?” You grimace. “It was terrible. Twice to the theater, which was nice enough. I just didn't realize I was sharing the box with someone who wished to be betrothed! But I thought it so barmy, to escort me to a play for that ulterior purpose. I’m not very well going to pay attention to them during the performance, am I?”

“Of course not,” Dirk murmurs. “What of the third time?”

“An invitation to dinner aboard their ship docked in the harbor. Apparently if they got me aboard, they planned to whisk me away until I agreed to take their daughter’s hand? Jane sent guards to escort me home. It was very embarrassing.”

The Prince smiles faintly. “You seem to find yourself in these situations a lot, Jake.”

Heat floods your cheeks. “Well. Not anymore. Can’t say I miss it.”

Lifting his glass to you, Dirk takes a sip. “Glad to be of assistance there.”

“Haha, you did, yes.” You avert your gaze, unable to bear the open, weary look on Dirk’s face, how unguarded it is. “Sorry I don’t have the means to… return the…”

“It’s nothing I can’t weather,” Dirk murmurs, and lapses back into an oddly comfortable silence.

You let the topic drop gratefully.

 

* * *

 

The sun comes out and starts to overpower the long-standing blanket of white across Derse just around the time you’re getting used to the grasp of winter. Life has become a small bubble of popping fires and warm drinks and scurrying from rug to rug, avoiding the cold floors. The first morning you wake up and find you’ve nudged your heavy quilt off during the night is like coming out of a long hibernation. Not longer after that, the entire castle is filled with the sound of dripping as the snow on the roof melts and rains off the eaves onto every stone windowsill.

In the back of your mind, you had feared the winter would be the end of you. Left to the mercies of Derse, taken by the winter chill until your last breath crystallized over your lips, leaving you frozen, locked away in a room and lost like the Prince’s trinkets and puzzles.

Now, the air starts to taste like fresh water, and you’re so parched for something new.

The royal family apparently is not as immune as you assumed. Dirk is as unchanging and distant as the moon, but as you take to outings on a daily basis, eager to get out into the world to watch is awaken and come back to greenery, you’re followed by small interlopers.

Dave hops along behind you, trying to dodge the muddy puddles left from the ice thaw. Rose cares less, it seems, trailing in your shadow with her oversized clunky boots and a book under her arm.

“The whole world’s waking up,” she says, chin lifted and voice clear. “Good and ill, it’s all stirring. You should take your pleasures while you still can.”

Dave nose wrinkles as he jumps past another puddle in his path. “Ugh, can you quit with the dire shiii-- crap for ten minutes?”

You glance back at Dave, eyebrows lifted. “Your Grace, what was that?”

His face colors solidly under your easy stare. “Nuthin!”

Rose smirks. “He’s been hanging around with the knights, who hardly temper their language in regal company.”

“Snitch,” Dave grumbles, and shoves her hip. She fails to tumble to the ground, and shoves him back.

“Both of you, please.” You put yourself between them. Dave takes your hand eagerly when you offer it. Rose deigns to do the same, but you expected nothing less from her. Often, you find it unnerving how like Dirk they both are.

You don’t bother trying to catch anything this time, content to traipse around the grounds with your young chaperones, listening to them snipe at each other and defusing them when they aren’t gentle enough.

Eventually, Dave hooks his fingers in the strap holding your rifle to your back and tugs. “Can I see?”

Taking care to fully unload the rifle first, you sit on a fallen tree, setting it across your knees. It’s nearly as tall as he is.

“Dirk’s great with his sword stuff. Are you good at shooting things?”

“I like to think so,” you tell him, watching as he drags his fingers over the mechanisms.

“Such false modesty is unbecoming.” Rose boosts herself up to sit next to you. “Roxy says you’re very skilled.”

“Your sister is very kind to me, especially humoring my little excursions.”

Rose smiles sunnily. “She collects stray cats, you know. And she always says the key to it isn’t to lock them up, but let them roam around until they get a feel for their new home. Keeping them cooped up just breeds resentment, and cats are _very_ good at breeding.”

“Rose,” Dave says, annoyed. You raise your hand to run it through his hair, shushing him.

“By now, I’m _quite_ inured to the princess’s needling. It’s alright.” Watching him for a moment, the way his shoulders slump, his eyes low as he traces the filigree worked into the wood of the stock, you smile indulgently. “Did you want to learn?”

Dave looks up quickly and nods adamantly. “Yeah! Roxy never has the time with all her magicks and ehspi...espionage stuff.”

“You’re in luck,” you tell him, standing and taking his hand again. “Time is something I have quite a surplus of.”

“No, you don’t,” Rose calls at your back. But you’ve learned not to encourage her cryptic hints about your future. She never elaborates, and only grows more smug.

For the afternoon, you show Dave what you can, teaching him the different parts of the rifle. The one you’ve brought is far too big for him, even with assistance, but you promise to find him something more suitable to learn with next time.

Dave’s weariness is clear when you know what to look for. He nods and shakes his head more than answering verbally, and his words melt together like butter, whatever lessons on diction he’s been given forgotten. You’re not interested in carrying him back to the castle through the rough, damp grounds, so you pack up early to take the twins home, keeping a hold of his hand so he doesn’t fall behind.

You cannot help being terribly fond of them both.

To your surprise, as soon as you enter through a discreet side door off the courtyard, one of the twins’ governesses is there, looking harangued and half-frantic as she looks them over.

“Oh, there you both are, children.” She flutters her hands over them, tsking loudly before taking their hands from you. “Let’s get you both tidied up, oh, you’re both _covered_ in muck, was this necessary?”

“I’m sorry, has something happened?” you ask.

“I did say,” Rose intones severely.

“What?”

“The Alternian delegation arrived an hour ago,” the governess says shortly, already whisking the prince and princess away. “I suggest you get cleaned up, ambassador.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "hey lucy, what's the technology level of this AU?"
> 
> shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. /shoves more anachronisms into the blender. shhhhhhh.


	2. take a body to water

You have never seen a troll in person before now.

You’ve seen _parts_ of trolls. Every once in a while, a soldier would return from the front lines with the horns of an Alternian they managed to fell in battle. The horns were not like antlers with their velvet fuzz; they were hard like enamel and bright like sugar candy, variable in shape and size, and brittle once removed from their… owner. It became _en vogue_ around some hunting lodges in Prospit to mount the horns onto a grey-painted mannequin head, hung amid the usual trophies in the hall.

It’s entirely different seeing them sat proud upon the head of the Empress as she stands tall and imposing at the foot of the stairs leading up to the Prince’s throne. She’s dressed… in a way that doesn’t seem befitting the leader of the Alternian empire, but indicative of the barbaric things you’ve heard of them. Her squid ink black hair is tamed into long trailing braids that loop in and out of her crown. Unlike the Prince’s silver and white gold diadem, hers is organic looking, colorful and porous like coral. It nearly blends in with her horns, giving her the effect of having many more asymmetric claws reaching out from her skull. Her skirts are gossamer, and through them you can see her riding boots, stretching far up her legs.

She stands leaning on a great trident. In return, Dirk sits with his sword resting in his reach, against the arm of his throne.

You remain out of sight best you can; there is a servant’s entrance hidden behind a curtain, and you join the little group crowded there, spying into the throne room. A few of the staff glance at you when you join them, but not for long; the scene through the curtain is too interesting to look away from.

“Forgive my lack of familiarity with the Alternian customs,” Dirk is saying, his voice calm to the point of flatness. “I’m given to understand your title is--”

The Empress _shrugs_ , her teeth glinting. “Her Imperious Condescension, the Condessa, the Immortal Baroness, the Fuschia Scourge, bluh bluh.” She put a fist on her hip, grinning at the Prince. “I would permit you to call me Meenah.”

Dirk’s eyebrow lifts. “A rare honor.”

“Less so than you’d think, _Your Highness_ ,” answers the troll at the Empress’ side. She is far less ostentatious than her leader, dressed in more demure navy with a silver spiderweb chain wrapped around her shoulders and arms like a glittering shawl. “Prince Strider, we are determined to take audience with you, but our journey has been very long. If we could rest before carrying on?”

“Hm. It’s an interesting move, to request hospitality while your soldiers clash with mine.”

The Empress’ grin widens. “I got more where that came from, buoyo.”

“ _Meenah_ ,” the other troll hisses.

The Prince stands from his throne, his hand wrapped around the sheath of his sword. Immediately, the guards flanking him shift, weight moving, ready to leap at his command.

The Empress lifts her chin.

“There are rooms prepared. You’ll be escorted to them, and _from_ them when we are ready to hear you. Any act of aggression will be dealt with swiftly.”

She taps her trident against the floor and inclines her head, putting her fangs away. “I knew you’d be fun. Come on, Aranea.”

The other troll, Aranea, bows deeply to Dirk, and the Alternia delegation together is led from the room.

The door has only just swung shut when you push past the curtain and storm across the throne room, over to the dais where Dirk stands in all his finery. “Dirk-- Your Highness.”

“Not here,” Dirk snaps, and reaches out. His hand alights to your shoulder, just a graze, and you follow the motion.

You leave through yet another door, behind the throne, going where Dirk directs and biting your tongue to keep from saying anything. Your heart is racing, and the quick pace Dirk’s setting does not help.

The silver gilded throne room vanishes behind a heavy set of double doors; here is a quiet room, small and dimly light, calm. You recognize it on sight despite having never been inside. You know it’s function, its familiar enough. There’s one just like it in Prospit’s palace, filled with chaise couches and wine. Many times, you watched Jane pace it, composing herself before an appearance in front of the Court.

Dirk shuts the doors behind you, his back to you.

It makes it easier. “You _knew_.” There is an awful tremble in your voice, and you stop hard to try and quash it. “You had _rooms prepared_.”

“We always have--” Dirk starts.

“Sweet bedeviling starlight, Dirk, _don’t_. You let the Alternians dance a merry fucking waltz right into your castle and you expect me to believe--”

“ _Enough._ ”

Fortunately, there is a seat right behind you and you sink gratefully onto it when your knees go wobbly under you.

The Alternians are here. They’ve spilled more Prospitan blood than any other nation in the last century, and their ruler introduced herself like she was attending a casual shindig rather than stepping into the heart of a rival kingdom.

You lift your eyes to Dirk, and find him still facing the heavy doors. His palms are pressed to the heavy wood, two fingers on his right hand tapping a rapid beat. His head is bowed, like his ornate headpiece has only just started to show the weight of its metal and gemstones.

You lick your lips, take a deep breath. “Dirk. They’re killing my people.”

Slowly, the Prince turns, rests his back against the doors and crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m aware. And, yes, I knew they were coming. You don’t need a flock of scryers to catch word that troll royalty is marching up the main road.”

“Then _why_?”

“Because for every one Prospitan soldier holding the Alternians back, there’s two Dersians. Where do my allegiances lie, Jake?” He sighs, sounding very tired and worn out. “The Empress herself walked into my castle.”

“Is it too much to hope that her guest rooms are in the dungeon?”

“Were yours?” Dirk straightens, strides across the room, pausing within your reach.

From here, he’s very tall, and his diadem only adds to his height. You refuse to feel intimidated. “Prospit should be at the table if you’re going to argue for peace.”

“There’s no time to call on Prospit now.” When you frown and open your mouth to point out the _obvious_ , Dirk shakes his head. “No.”

“I’m your _ambassador_!”

“If I had an ounce of confidence that you could refrain from going after the Empress with a dinner knife, _perhaps_ , but I don’t.”

“Excuse me for being a little hot blooded when my people are on the line!”

Dirk frowns deeply. “I’ve been fighting for them, spilling Dersian blood for them, and you don’t trust me to act in your interests?”

It’s not that. Derse’s aid has been the only thing keeping Prospit on its feet. But given the _price_ … “If the Baroness was interested in peace with Prospit,” you point out carefully, aware of the tremor fighting to break loose in your throat, “she would not have come to _Derse_.”

“They’ve made their move,” Dirk says. “And I’ll make mine.” He steps away at last, towards the exit. “Will you take dinner with the twins tonight? I don’t want them causing trouble and they listen to you.”

“And if I take dinner with them, I can’t interfere in the main hall while you entertain the trolls,” you translate.

“Tomorrow,” Dirk says, taking a seat before one of the silver mirrored vanities. He lifts the crown off his head, sets it down, and presses his thumb unto the space between his eyebrows. “We’ll discuss it tomorrow. Let me handle this for tonight, Jake. For both our sakes.”

You hope he’s right, and that he knows what he’s doing. It’s hard to shake the feeling that something terrible is on its way. Rose’s airy warning returns anew to your mind. This is presumably what she meant.

The Alternians came to _Derse_ only a few months after their aid and armies moved to strengthen Prospit. There are conclusions to be drawn, and you don’t like any of them.

But you give Dirk a day. You owe him that much.

 

* * *

 

 

 _The Prince claims he’s got a handle on everything, but I’m worried, Janey. I’m so worried. He’s been talking to them all week. Some ambassador I am, not even invited to the table. I would give the Prince a piece of my mind and a big helping of contrition, but I’ve barely_ seen _him. Nary hide nor hair of him darkening the halls since the trolls have arrived._

 

_I don’t like it, Jane, given the delicate price of our treaty. I can’t help but sit here and sweat bullets wondering if Her Imperious Condescension is going to try to outbid us, so to speak. The Prince may have less… eccentric prices than whim and retribution._

 

_I dread to think._

 

* * *

 

The last place you ever wanted to be was on the balcony above the ballroom. In honor of the Alternian delegation, there’s been a feast and now a dance, as is apparently rote for Derse. This kingdom celebrates the arrival of their enemies like Prospit celebrates the King’s birthday.

It was half a year ago when Jane was pushing you towards the Crown Prince to take a dance with him. Half a year ago, Dirk had followed your steps around the floor and listened with wide amber eyes as you whispered empty sweet things into his ear.

You truly do _not_ have cause to sneer down at one of the trolls as she steps up to the Prince and bows deeply with an outstretched hand. That doesn’t stop you, though.

The troll woman is part of the delegation. Pointy and dangerous looking, Terezi Pyrope moves like she’s a sheathless sword, and you watch as everyone gives her a wide berth. Dirk is good with blades, though, and soon they are moving around together to the music. From this distance, you can’t make out anything further.

You are not to interact with the Alternians. Dirk hasn’t _forbidden_ it, but the fact you were not informed of the party and had to overhear about it from the servants says enough.

You would give Dirk a piece of your mind, but you still have barely seen him. He returns to his chambers so late at night, and sleeps in almost to the afternoon before slipping away again. Whatever the Alternians want with him, it’s taking up much of his time, swinging him out of his usual routine.

Leaning on the bannister, you watch Dirk elegantly dip the Lady Pyrope. He sells it well enough, though once she’s returned to her feet and the music fades, he bows and steps away to his throne upon the dais.

You absolutely do not smile at the sight. At least you know _that_ is not the Empress’ bargain with Derse.

Which is one hell of a pedestal to put yourself on, being more gifted the fine and subtle art of prostitution than the Alternians. Even then, you’re not certain you can claim to be _that_ gifted, as you’ve lived as the Prince’s _companion_ for months now and have yet to relinquish any maidenhead to him.

Your eyes are scanning the Alternian congregation for any sign of male nobility when Rose pulls herself up next to you, standing on her tiptoes with her hands on the railing to peer over it. You watch for a moment as she struggles to keep balanced like that, perched precariously. Eventually, her pale eyes meet yours. “You _could_ lift me.”

“Is it ordained in the stars, Princess?” you ask her. “What house is the sun in?”

Her lip juts out in a childish pout, so you bend to lift her up onto your hip, wrapping both arms under her. She and Dave are both getting too big to be carried, but you have strength to spare for them. You may also have a hard time not indulging their requests.

From her new vantage point, Rose looks out over the assembly below, one of her hands fisted tightly in your fine jacket, pressed over your heart, just under the golden wings of hope you still wear for events like these. They look a little off against your violet dress and silver accents, but you can’t bare to leave the emblem of your position to gather dust in the cabinet.

Rose’s head rests against you as she hums contemplatively. You await her youthful ancient wisdom, and you are not disappointed; “I’m rather excited to see how this goes. The last time we held such an event for visiting dignitaries, Dirk brought us back a beloved minder. I wonder what he’ll get us this time.”

You should _not_ feel so warmed to be called beloved by a spoilt precognitive brat of an heiress. “There is more to these affairs than _presents,_ Rose. And honestly I’m not sure what the trolls have to offer Derse.”

“Only because you feel threatened,” Rose says primly, patting your chest reassuringly.

“I’m not _threatened_ ,” you tell her, stern.

“No, you’re not,” she agrees, and you can tell she’s talking around what you’re trying to say. Again. “Alternia is a matriarchy, for the most part. They’re actually a fascinating society if anyone took the time to read about them beyond combat tactics and military history.”

“Can’t say I’m exactly raring to go and throw myself into literature about such violent, cruel people who would see Prospit burn.”

“Maybe that’s why you’re so unprepared. Ignorance is the greatest weakness of all, the one failing a tactician cannot compensate for.”

You frown down at her, stung. Her expression softens just a little, but you get no apology. You didn’t expect one.

She points across the floor. “Notice how they are all dressed in bold colors? The Baroness keeps to her vibrant pink palette. Her aide wears blue. And she,” Rose points to Pyrope as she rejoins the delegation, “wears that teal color?”

“Not a terribly united front,” you mutter.

“To an undiscerning eye, certainly. But Alternians have varying blood colors. A full spectrum runs through their species, each with its own differing biological quirks. Some even seem to have innate magic to their caste. The details are kept pretty secret, _but_ we do know that the highest ranking Alternian is always that tyrian hue, and their nobility have cooler colors. Violet and bluebloods.”

“Is that a joke?”

Rose smiles. “No, but it’s a lovely bit of cross-cultural coincidence, isn’t it?”

You’re laughing when your eyes slide to the side again and find Dirk’s from across the room, unerringly and swift as a compass finding north. He’s on his throne in that regal sprawl, his elbow on the plush velvet arm, his cheek against his knuckles, head tipped back and gaze pointed your direction.

Rose lets out a sigh, exasperated and smug. “He would rather be dancing with you.”

“Stop that,” you tell her, finally tearing your gaze away. You keep a hold of her as you carry her off to the royal quarters. “If he wanted, all he’d have to do is ask.”

“Don’t be stupid, things between you are never that simple. Sometimes my head just hurts being around you.”

“It’s not my fault your brother is impossible.”

“Isn’t it?” She tugs at your jacket. “I want to play a game.”

“Fine. But not chess.”

The sound of Rose complaining accompanies you all the way back to your quarters.

 

* * *

 

After dominos and backgammon and a few more lessons on Alternian culture, Rose retires to her room to sleep.

You attempt do the same. You change into your pyjamas, lay down, and shut your eyes.

Ten minutes pass before you decide to hell with that and shove your feet into your slippers. Abandoning the guise of sleep, you walk over to Dirk’s chambers and let yourself in.

The fire is lit, but low, and hasn’t been tended to in the last few hours. Only a few cursory candles are lit, the bare minimum. Whoever saw to the room didn’t expect the Prince back anytime soon.

You light a few candles yourself and pour a drink, settling into your usual chair to watch the fire smoulder as you wait.

There’s no way to tell how late it is when Dirk finally returns. Only that it’s _very_. You’ve waited long enough for a cold fear to settle in, tht Dirk might not return at all, and the subsequently obvious question of whose bed he’d be sleeping in if not his own. Thus, when the door swings open and the Prince enters, your relief is intense.

You are too tired to temper these thoughts anymore.

Your relief fades as Dirk stands there, halted upon the threshold, and stares at you. You’ve been in this position a hundred times now, and this is the first time Dirk has looked unhappy to see you. It stings.

“You look exhausted,” you say, hoping it’s a safe volley, something sympathetic to open things up.

“Jake,” Dirk sighs, crossing the room to pass you by, walking to his private chambers. “What are you doing here? It’s too late for this.”

Whatever _this_ is. You want to bristle; you stamp on the urge until it shuts up. He hardly deserves it but you _will_ be civil. “I wanted to see you. It’s been over a week.”

Tonight is a full moon, and light’s spilling into Dirk’s bedroom. There’s more illumination than you’re used to, enough to watch the vague silvery silhouette of him changing. It’s voyeuristic; you don’t really care right now, your good sense long retired for the night.

He has very narrow hips. You look away.

Dirk takes his time, as if he can wait you out, as if you haven’t been waiting _him_ out all damned night. You sit still and sip your drink, press the glass to your forehead in hopes of cooling the hot flush there. For once, you’ve forgone your usual wine, left it on the shelf and availed yourself to Dirk’s drink of choice and discovered it was an almost sweet, woody bourbon. It’s a bit more than you’re used to, but you find yourself keen to have a new flavor on your tongue.

The Prince reappears, draped in a loosely-belted robe, his arms limp at his sides. He leans against the back of the armchair opposite yours, but makes no move to sit. “Should I get you a pillow and blanket?”

“Dirk, what’s going on?” You refuse to be chased off by his habitual abrasiveness.

“Negotiations,” Dirk says.

“Come off it, this concerns Prospit as well. Why…” You take a calming breath. “Why won’t you tell me?”

“I’m handling it. Securing the best solution takes work. I can’t--” He stops hard, and lets out a slow sigh through his nose. “The situation is complicated.”

“Are they pursuing peace? Or are they here to… turn Derse against Prospit?” It’s the only thing that makes sense. The Empress did not darken Jane’s court, only Dirk’s; you cannot fathom what else that could mean.

“Of a sort.” Dirk sighs again, head lowering, heavy on his neck even without a crown to weigh him down. “Meenah put an offer on the table, to unify Derse and Alternia, to create a treaty and seal it with a marriage contract.”

For a moment, your heart stops. A beat is skipped, and sick, anxious heat floods out in the place of blood, making you want to _shake_. Your glass clinks loudly on the table as you set it down.

Derse and Alternia. You cannot think of a worse scenario. Between the two of them, Prospit is essentially surrounded, backed into the sea with Alternia to the north and west and Derse to the south. Together, they’d dwarf your homeland. Two affluent nations lead by two conquerors.

Because there has never been a doubt in your mind that Dirk was a conqueror.

“You can’t,” you manage weakly.

Dirk lifts his head from his folded arms, looking almost amused. “I can. Whether I _will_ is the question.”

“You’re going to marry the _Empress_?” It doesn’t make sense. How would that work, the unification of Derse and Alternia? Just the most unimportant, basic implications make you feel even more ill. Would the twins have to move closer to Alternia? Where would the seat of power be? Where would Dirk go, and would he take you with him?

The idea of him wearing that awful gaudy piece of coral on his head is unthinkable.

Before your brain can run away on that track, Dirk shakes his head. “No. Not to Meenah, but to one of her advisors. Lady Pyrope.”

“That’s… that’s ridiculous, you couldn’t-- she’s a-- you’re not interested in her!” The words taste ugly in your mouth, your face flushing as you stand and stare him down.

Dirk merely tilts his head, meeting your eyes levely. “And you now imagine that matters?”

The stillness that falls then catches like a knife in your chest, painful as you wait for your brain to catch up with that. With… the idea of Dirk marrying some Alternian noblewoman for… for what?

You try to imagine the sharp teal troll sitting in this room, or playing a game with Rose, or talking Dave through his nightmares, and your stomach twists painfully. Would Dirk touch _her_?

“I’ve not forgotten Prospit,” Dirk goes on, tone flat but quiet, as calm as you _aren’t_. “This would be my foothold in Alternia. It would be the leverage I need to definitively end this conflict and get them out of your lands.”

It would be Alternia’s foothold in Derse too. You know it. Perhaps Dirk would use his leverage to sue for peace, an end to this conflict, but the cost… Derse tied to Alternia, _Dirk_ tied to Alternia.

Where did that leave you? And if Dirk’s attention was taken from you, if you stopped holding his interest, what sort of bargaining chip would you become?

You clench your hands to still their shaking. “Tell them no, Dirk. You _must_ , they don’t-- you don’t want her, you couldn’t.”

Stepping around the chair, you are suddenly and keenly reminded of the few extra inches of height Dirk has on you as he moves close to you, keen bright eyes narrow on yours.

“I would’ve assumed,” Dirk says quietly, “that you’d be thrilled.” There is something curling in his words, something bitter and colder than you’ve heard of him since the day he stood in the war room and called Prospit’s bluff. There is a melody to his soft, detached voice, and it sends a shiver down your spine to be facing that version of the Prince again.

“If I unite with Alternia, I can do something about this war. I will have leverage with them. You’ll finally have the protection you want, that you’re _paying for_.” He turns his head, like some steely eyed, taloned bird. “This could save Prospit. And isn’t the preservation of your home why you’re _here_?”

“That doesn’t mean I--” You swallow, and resist the strong urge to step back, to put some more distance between you. “It’s too risky. They can’t be trusted. You shouldn’t have to… do this.”

“Do _what_ ,” Dirk asks, cruel.

“Give up… things.” The words are jumbled and awful, and you feel dizzy from how hard your face is flushing as the Prince moves closer, listening avidly.

“Give up you?” Dirk whispers.

“This isn’t about that.” There is an audible shake in your voice now; you hate how calm Dirk’s sounds, _hate_ it. “This isn’t what’s best for _you_.”

“The joining of our nation to another almost equal in power?”

“Stop it! Don’t-- you’re making this harder! You’d be miserable, and married off to some troll woman you have no interest in for the _chance_ at influence?”

“As opposed to this?”

It cuts you deep, the Prince’s voice cold like frostbite, as if spring has only come because he’s swallowed winter whole, his eyes sharp as a stiletto pushing in between your ribs. He seems so far away from the man you’ve dined with, played games against, spent afternoons of quiet shared camaraderie with. He’s even farther from the man who secreted you into the depths of the courtyard, and you’re suddenly and wholly filled with anger on behalf of that man who kissed like he was drowning. Angry that the young man who clutched at you and pressed his lips to yours has been devoured by _this_ Prince and his cold machinations.

This, the place where you live. This, the space you share. This, everything you gave up to secure a future for your people. This, the fire slowly coming to life between you both.

Set aside, like nothing important.

You are tired and upset and _hurt_ above all else, and you want Dirk to hurt too.

His head jerks violently to the side as you punch him, staggering one step.

Dirk’s hand lifts to his jaw, rubbing slowly, dazed.

You feel sick.

His eyes lift to yours, and you take solemn comfort in having apparently hit the mask right off his face. His eyebrows pull down, knit together, confused and aching as he holds his fingers against his jaw.

The look in his eyes makes _you_ ache.

Jerking away with equal violence, you wrap your arms around yourself, nails digging into your opposite forearms. You hit him. You actually reached out and hit him.

You feel _sick_.

He makes no attempts to stop you on your way to the door. You wish he would, that he’d do anything to you, say anything. Reciprocate somehow.

But the Prince does not touch you. You’re beginning to doubt he ever did, the memories fading like an old dream.

At the door, you close your hands on the handle, the metal cool in your hand. “Don’t… don’t accept their offer,” you say to the room, head bowed, unable to look up or even start to look back at Dirk. If you turned and saw him still standing there, hand on his cheek, you’d… you’d…

You can’t. Instead, you say, “If the Empress wanted to unite Derse and Alternia, she’d offer up _herself_ , not a random troll who barely counts as nobility.” He says nothing, and you shudder at the chilly silence reaching its claws into your back. “At-- at least I was second in line for my country’s throne. She doesn’t see you as her equal.”

You can’t stand to wait for most silence. Pulling the door open, you leave and hurry back to your room, eyes brimming.

 

* * *

 

Over melon balls and strawberries and sweet cream, Rose says, “He’ll forgive you.”

You bite down on your fork and drop it, clapping a hand to your mouth at the tinny pain that seizes your jaw. Next to you, both Roxy and Dave let out nearly identical snort-laughs.

“Sorry, what?” you say, looking at Rose.

“He’ll forgive you,” she repeats, her eyes distant as she spears a perfect globe of fruit. “But that’s not saying much. He’d forgive you anything.”

Roxy waves her butterknife at Rose. “Rosey, are you seeing into Jake’s business again? We’ve talked about this.”

The younger princess’ cheeks color. “I am trying to _help_. No one ever believes me.”

“You just like being right,” Dave mutters.

“As opposed to what? Should I enjoy being _wrong_?”

“Jus’ stop creeping people out and showing off! Jake already knows you can see stuff!”

“Why didn’t _you_ stop creeping out the trolls yesterday! Was it necessary to tell Lady Serket you knew about her guardian dying?”

Roxy offers you a sympathetic look and reaches out to tweak the ears of both the children. “Be nice, both of you.”

They subside into sullen, pouty silences, to your relief. You don’t think you can handle any more today. You eat quietly and try very hard not to think about anything, especially not how _he’ll forgive you_ makes you feel hollow as a drum.

 

* * *

 

 

It doesn’t take Dirk’s passive omission of invitations and information to keep you sequestered away. You handle that on your own.

Really, you’ve not laid eyes upon him since you struck him, and it becomes so easy to keep to your room and wallow in the memory. You lay in bed and take the image of Dirk pained and shocked out of the glass case in your mind, turning it over and over, like holding a piece of hot metal. It burns and stings, and you keep doing it until you can’t stand it.

Put it away. Do it all over in a few hours as soon as you start to forget the feeling.

You lay about, take your meals alone, and avail yourself to selections from the royal wine cellar to ease your path to sleep. It’s been weeks since you’ve had the sleeping draught, stubbornly refusing to ask anyone else for help.

The bitterness swells in you, and you deserve it.

Spending so much time in your room is illuminating. Apparently the reason for the Prince’s late nights is not as salacious as you assumed. Rather, the Alternians seem more alert at night, quite at home in the darkness in a way that makes you wonder if they’re nocturnal. Or are just some sort of infernal beings that prefer the shadows.

You discover this after sundown. With your dinner finished and the setting cleared by one of the servants, you shuffle back to bed, ready to lay down until sleep mercifully takes you. The window near your bed overlooks the courtyard, and you notice movement through it.

The iron torches are lit, casting a flickering glow over the scene. Chairs have been set out, and you see the Empress seated in one, her long legs stretched out before her, her aide in the chair next to her. They are watching the show before them.

That show is your Prince in his sparring clothes, standing against Lady Pyrope. Both of them are holding fencing foils rather than Dirk’s usual practice swords.

As you sit on the edge of your bed, leaning an elbow on the windowsill, you watch Dirk pace out a small arena, marking the ground with his sword. He takes position. Pyrope does the same, grinning at him, her wide smile visible to you even from afar.

You… had heard Pyrope was blind. And yet she stands confidently and takes a fencer’s stance with lithe poise.

The Empress raises her hands and claps once.

Pyrope darts forward, wasting no time taking a swipe at Dirk, following it immediately with a sharp jab. Dirk avoids one, knocks away the other, foil flashing firelight through the night. He strikes back, first high, overhead, then sweeping down to very nearly poke Pyrope’s stomach before she leaps backward, back bending to get out of reach.

They trade off steps, moving in turns at first, then blending into a true round as the gaps between their strikes shorten.

Dirk lands a hit. Pyrope flashes her teeth, and hurries back to her mark as the Empress and aide applaud.

The Prince is showing off for the troll delegation.

You would love to see the board at this point and figure out if this was Dirk’s move or the Empress’. What was the strategy in this?

It’s _quite_ a show. You’re not versed in the art, but clearly both Dirk and Pyrope know how to handle themselves in combat. Sitting at the window and settling in, you observe them trading rounds to and fro. Pyrope favors precise strikes, quick feints and pokes, almost exclusively stabbing the foil at Dirk. It’s a fair match for Dirk’s sweeping gestures and circuitous movement, each of his steps and strikes building his momentum. He hits hard, harder than you think is strictly necessary for a friendly bout.

You could examine that for a while. Is the Prince frustrated? Is he tired of these games? Is he finally going to do something about the enemies in their midst?

Regardless, Dirk has no qualms hooking his foil under the arm of Pyrope’s spectacles to send them flying. You nearly applaud that yourself. It’s such a dirty move, you should not be so happy to see it, but there is the slightest crescent curve of a grin on your Prince’s face as he holds the foil at Pyrope’s neck. His lips move.

Pyrope’s grin is wider, sharper. Her hand whips up, fingers clamping onto his foil near the hilt, her grip hard enough the thin metal shudders. She takes a half step back and _pulls_ with all of her diminutive, compact weight, falling back.

Dirk stumbles forward, and your heart goes to your throat, spine straightening in horrified shock as Dirk lands on the ground at her feet. He rolls once, winding up on his back.

Pyrope’s on him, a knee in his chest, the foil gripped in both her hands more like a garrote than a sword, and set to his throat.

For a moment, you can’t think. For a moment, you want to grab your rifle.

The stillness is absolute for a moment. Aide Serket has her hands over her mouth. The Empress’s face is caught in a frozen rictus of delight at the turnabout.

Pyrope’s mouth moves. You are shocked she can speak through her fucking awful toothy smile.

The stillness breaks. Dirk’s hands whip up, one at her shoulder, the other at her hip, and in a single fluid motion she’s thrown off, landing hard enough on her side you wince at the impact. Foot flung out, Dirk swings himself up to his feet, bouncing back a step, out of reach.

No one moves.

Pyrope crawls back to her feet, swaying once before clapping her hands together briskly and offering the Prince a deep bow, her neck showing, nose to the paving stones before she straightens again.

She’s still smiling as she picks up her foil and offers it over peacefully, as if she had not just crashed into Dirk’s body, as if she had that _right_.

You do not indulge yourself and wait for Dirk’s eyes to lift to meet yours through the window. Or, to wait for him to _not_. You finish your glass in one gulp and decide you need to take a bloody walk.

 

* * *

 

You don’t have a direction in mind. Just away.

The universe is punishing you; within moments you cross paths with Dirk.

Like every other time you’ve caught a glimpse of him since the Alternians arrived, he looks tired, but it’s a different beast this time. Not the exhaustion of a late night, but of work and motion. He’s almost indecent, white gold strands of hair sticking to his temples, the fastens of his sparring uniform opened far enough to show off the sharp line of his clavicle. His lips are parted around his deep, steady breaths.

You slow to a halting pace as he walks toward you, eyes bright and lifting to yours. A flash of confusion, then he nods once, understanding. “You’re out late,” he says quietly, as if he doesn’t _know_.

You feel a weariness seize your very bones in an iron beartrap maw. Mouth twisting, your words have the bitter taste of lingering wine and anger: “Needed to clear my head after that display.”

“Display,” he repeats, impassive as stone.

“Bit uncouth.” You can’t help the words tumbling off your tongue once they start. “Lifting a hand to one’s intended. And royalty no less.”

Dirk’s eyes _widen_ , the whites crisp and clear through the moonlit hallway. He inhales sharply, and.

And lets out a soft huff of laughter.

The rush of blood to your face is so intense and sudden, your head spins. “I.” You start, and stop just as quickly.

Dirk’s boots barely make sound as he steps closer to you, meeting you in the middle of the hallway. You are too paralyzed by your own _idiocy_ to even think about shrinking back.

All he says, with a dark, cutting smile, is, “ _Goodnight_ , Jake,” before he steps around you and walks away, leaving you there in the deafening quiet.

You hear a crow’s cry, harsh and mocking, and jolt into motion, stalking to the first empty room you can find. A door without handle, it swings open easily and slams gratifyingly shut under your weight as you slump back against it.

It’s another unused suite. The black cloth is still thrown over the furniture. The curtains are drawn. It’s dark and musty and quiet and _alone_ , perfect for you to stand numbly in, mind spinning like a wooden top.

You feel hot with shame, thinking about it. How did you forget that you beat Lady Pyrope to that particular _punch_ by several days? You’ve been consumed with reliving the moment over and over-- _Dirk’s blown pupils, the amber ring around fathomless black, the line of his neck as his head turned with the movement_ \-- and you just threw it in his face again.

Uncouth. Maybe you share that with Pyrope. The thought of it makes your lips curl, and it’s ridiculous. It’s this hideous tantrum that’s so unworthy of you, it’s embarrassing. But you don’t want to share anything with Pyrope, _especially_ not striking the Prince.

At least she had been sparring with him, not delivering a sucker strike in a moment of weakness. _She_ had stood on her mark like an equal and leaned over him with a smile, pressed him down against the earth to make him _stay_. The erasure of distance.

You didn’t _dare_.

But he would forgive you _anything_.

Your head thumps back against the door, the pain a relief, grounding as your thoughts scatter around like marbles sliding over glass. You hadn’t forgotten. Not really. You said a cruel thing about her because it _wasn’t_ the same for you. You felt it in your bones. After all, _she_ wasn’t meant for him, _you were_ \-- and you could very well be going mad.

It will not leave you alone once you start to think about it, the ugly petty thing in you reminding you that if anyone was supposed to touch the Prince of Derse, it was _you_.

The hot gold of his eyes, the blade-sharp line of his collarbone, the lean set of his hips were _supposed_ to be for you. If anyone were to ask his forgiveness for crossing that chasm of space to lay hands upon him, it shouldn’t have been some enemy dignitary. Call it duty or call it by its real name, but there was a pacing, restless thing in your ribs that hated her trespass.

You knock your head against the door again, trying to reel yourself in. It’s distant sensation, buried under the heat in your face and the flush spreading plumage across your chest as you take deep gasps of air.

He never touches you.

He ought to.

There is a throbbing in the back of your head and you grind that sore spot back against the wood, wincing at the sting of it. Eyes clenched shut, you slide your hand down, as if it were less real if you just didn’t _look_.

The punch was too quick, just the crack of flesh-covered bone against its kin, so brief and fleeting. But it’s all you have; the rest is just so faded and nearly forgotten. You remember things through clouded glass; you remember he’s warm, burning embers in the heart of a cold kingdom. You remember his hands in your hair. Did he sigh into your mouth, or was it a desperate cry? Even as you try to recall the details, they slip further away and you whine through your teeth.

Memories don’t work, so you try to imagine something new for yourself: holding metal to his neck, your knee to his chest, making him give you the attention that’s rightfully yours.

The image won’t coalesce. He won’t touch you, so you do it for him, hand tight and mean on yourself as you squeeze your cock, right on the edge of desperate.

It doesn’t last long. You have no recollection of Dirk’s hands on you, but you have an endless stream of his bright, keen eyes, the avarice as heavy as a touch. You quickly press your hand over your mouth, muffling the helpless tense noises from your throat as you work yourself over fast and brutal, back sliding against the door as you lift onto your toes from the sensation, as if you could escape yourself.

You are definitely going mad, hiding in a vacant room of the Derse royal family’s wing and taking your pleasure to the thought of the Prince who bought you with blood and gold.

( _Oh_ , but who set the price?)

It doesn’t stop you from doing it, from biting the flesh at the base of your thumb as you spill over, and slump back, tired, tired, _tired,_ so worn down and sick of the fucking _games_.

You clean yourself up and walk back to your room, head blissfully quiet for once.

 

* * *

 

  _I loathe to admit this, but I fear I’ve messed it all up. I don’t know what’s come over me. It’s like a fever I didn’t realize I had._

_If it comes to pass and if the Prince marries Lady Pyrope, I don’t know what will become of me. Or our treaty, of course. Prospit’s future is always on the forefront of my mind, Janey. Always._

 

* * *

 

 

You dream of dark, syrupy cloying voices reaching into your head through your ears. You dream of great fields of snow with no end in sight and no hope on the horizon. You dream of Dirk in wedding finery that wrinkles and tears under your hands.

You keep the curtains over your window drawn and lay in bed, despondent.

Eventually, one morning, you wake to the sound of fingers snapping _right_ against your ear, startling you out of a lethargic doze.

Rose is fully dressed in a grey sundress adorned with pink ribbons that do nothing to combat the sour expression on her face. Her sharp eyebrows lift as you wake, judgemental and severe. “Jake,” she says slowly. “It’s time to get up.”

You groan and rub a hand over your face. With a pang, you realize you can feel far too much scruff on your jaw. Normally, you shave every other day to avoid the creep of prickly dark hair. The urge to pull the covers up over your head is strong. You don’t want the young princess to see you like this.

“Yes, you look awful. You’d sooner be mistaken for a beggar than royalty. Luckily, I’m generous and waking you up with enough time for you to clean up and get ready.”

“Ready,” you croak out. “Ready for what, what’ve I missed?”

“About four meals, some very important discussions, and Dave having a fit at Dirk for whatever he did to hurt your feelings.” She rolls her eyes. “Nothing important, basically. But it’d be poor form for you to remain a useless bed lump on the day the Empress takes her leave.”

That spurs you to sit up in bed. You feel whoozy, likely from your accidental fasting. What a wreck you are. “Leaving, they’re leaving? What happened? What...” What about the _wedding_ , you cannot bring yourself to ask.

“I’m not allowed to sit in on talks,” Rose says, her tone making it clear that she considers her exclusion from international negotiations to be a heinous oversight. “But Alternia has refused to stop their raids on Prospit. The Empress doesn’t seem to think that should hurt our friendship, though. I think she invited us all to her palace next year.”

“Then…” You barely believe it. “The peace contract?”

Rose shrugs one shoulder and smooths her pristine dress, not looking at you. “Apparently someone informed my older brother that being offered the hand of a midblooded troll noble was tantamount to insult. Then Roxy told him how longlived trolls apparently could be, and he wisely turned down the offer. Dirk tends to see logic when it’s presented to him.” She fixes her silk headband, continuing to fidget. “Except the occasional moment of madness, but you were a special case.”

You feel yourself color and haul your body out of bed just to put your back to her. “So he’s… not marrying Lady Pyrope?”

“Nope,” she says, over pronouncing the ‘p’ with a pop. “Just as well. If I had to choose a troll stepsister, I would pick Lady Aranea. She was good fun.”

That, you think, is quite enough of _that_. “I’ll clean up and meet you in-- erm.” _Not_ Dirk’s drawing room, stars above, what an awful idea.

“Down in the grand foyer, in an hour.”

Once she is safely out of your quarters and you’re alone, you put your face in your hands and catch your breath.

 

* * *

 

The carriage sitting in front of the castle is _garishly_ pink in a way that just perfectly manages to clash with the Dersian purple standards. It takes every single solitary memory of your etiquette lessons to not frown at it, the eyesore that it is.

“Yuck,” Dave says at your side, and your carefully bland face almost breaks.

It’s not the first thing Dave said to you. When you walked out to join the farewell procession, he’d yelped and fairly threw himself at you, nearly taking you out at the knees with a tackle. “Rose said you were sick,” he’d told you, staring up your chest at your face. “Are you feeling okay now?”

“Better, if not right as summer rain,” you’d told him, and let him hold on for a moment before easing him back to a proper distance.

The last time you stood in this procession, you were seeing off Jane. As though bidding your cousin and country farewell was not difficult enough, now you have to be a gracious host for the leader of your sworn enemy.

It’s a very charged, tense feeling. You only stand here in the Dersian court to protect your people and lands from this very Empire. You hold your hands behind your back, where you are free to clench them in simmering fury in peace.

Dirk may have had a point, about the dinner knife thing.

The Empress steps out of the castle, flanked by her aides, her natural height and horns making her taller than the entire procession. Where Jane had stilled and bade goodbye to sympathetic faces and potential allies, the Empress briskly strides down the carpet, lifting her trident with every step.

Her eyes land on you, and its only then she pauses in her path. Beyond her, you can see Dirk stepping out into the light, lips pursed.

The Empress leans in, and your attention narrows on her nervously. “Well, _you_ stand out amid all these pale guppies. You must be the ray of sunshine the good ol’ Prince been keeping locked up.”

Your mouth opens. You have no idea what to say. The Empress is sticking her blade to Prospit’s throat, and you don’t know what to _say_.

Dirk moves quickly when he puts his mind to it, and soon slides in, one easy step bringing him between you and her. “Jake,” he says dryly. “I present Empress Meenah Peixes of Alternia. Meenah,” and you can’t help but note she won _that_ skirmish, “our Prospitan Ambassador, Jacob English.”

She leans on her trident, smiling. “Shame we’re only meetin’ now.”

“Indeed,” you manage.

Nodding to you, the Empress says, “My invitation includes him. If you make the journey up to me, he should come along. Love to have him for dinner.”

With a toss of her tremendous mane of hair, she continues on her way, leaving you standing with your mouth dropped open. “Was that…”

Beside you, Dirk lets out the quietest, most restrained sigh you’ve ever heard. “No. Her idea of humor. Excuse me.” He follows the delegation to the carriage to see them fully off.

“Good riddance,” Dave mutters.

“I thought they were very interesting,” Rose chimes back cheerfully. “Aranea was nice.”

“No, she wasn’t,” Dave says sullenly, and sways into your side. You place your hand on his head, too thrown to care about propriety for the moment. “Being around them made my head hurt. Death follows them everywhere.”

Feeling a pang, you look down at him, eyes softening. “Is that how… it works?”

He shrugs one shoulder, wilting under your attention. “S’over now.”

“Yes, it is,” you reassure him, lifting your eyes to watch Dirk offering his hand to Lady Pyrope, up the steps into the carriage.

She smiles at him, and he inclines his head, guiding her along. You try to watch for… anything, a lingering touch, a held glance.

The pink door shuts, and the Prince turns away, already walking back up the path. The relief floods you.

And turns to drought as Dirk meets your eyes.

You are a coward, and avert your gaze as he passes you by.

You fear this could be where it all breaks down. Part of you regrets getting in the way; there was some truth to Dirk’s words, about leverage and footholds and protecting Prospit. You know it in your heart that he cares, even if only out of obligation or on your behalf.

Guilt curls in your belly at the thought of what you’ve done. With the trolls leaving, you feel like a fog has lifted, and the severity of your actions are laid out for you.

 

* * *

 

Dirk is not at supper, and while it would be so simple to let it go and return to your room and do nothing, it's a level of cowardice you can’t abide, even from yourself.

After escorting the children to their room, you cross the hall and for the first time in months take the time to knock on the grand double doors leading to the Prince’s chambers.

You are left standing so long, you almost retreat in defeat. Eventually, one of the doors slides open.

It would be a reassurance if you could tell if Dirk was surprised to see you or not. Really, his face is like carved alabaster in pallor and expression alike.

“Dirk,” you manage, his name exhaled softly. “May I…”

For a moment, you really think he’s going to send you away. Then, he steps back, away, and leaves the door open.

You follow, shutting it behind you. He sits in one of the armchairs; his chess cube floats in front of him, a game in progress, pieces out of place, scattered across the surface with a few black and white pieces sitting on the table.

“You weren’t at dinner,” you inform him, as if he doesn’t know.

He moves a piece on the board and leans back in his chair. “It’s been a long month. I wanted a night to myself.”

You flinch. “I-- Alright, I see. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Finger lingering on the head of a bishop, Dirk stills for a long second. “It’s fine. What do you need?”

If only you could give him the list.

Everything gets tripped up in your mouth. That you’re sorry for striking him. For not trusting him. That he should’ve let you in on the negotiations, for Prospit’s sake. That he should’ve let you in on the negotiations, for _his_ sake. That you have barely slept and you know about the nightmarish voices now, and wish you didn’t.

The one that makes it out of your mouth is, “You told them no.”

Dirk looks up at you. It feels like the first time in ages that he’s _looked_ at you, that low fire flickering in his molten gaze.

You have to stop thinking these things.

“Why?” you ask.

His answer is a weak, brittle smile, the lowering of his eyes again.

You stand there, hands awkward at your sides. You don’t want to leave it like this.

“Sometimes I wonder,” Dirk murmurs, “whether you are my companion or my warden.”

Your chest aches. “I’m sorry. About… before. When I--”

“I pushed, and you reacted,” Dirk completes for you, lips curved gently. “I did not expect _that_ reaction, but I can’t say it was undeserved. I can forgive you that if you can… reciprocate.”

“It’s been a long month,” you say, your hands folding together, a strain in your shoulders from all the tension in the air. “I, uh…”

Dirk watches you, patient.

“My forgiveness has a price. A pot of elixir. If you’re-- that’s an _attempt_ to lighten this blasted mood, Your Highness, I’m not--”

A huff of laughter almost transports you back to before, but it’s warmer this time. Not accusing. “Sit, Jake.”

What you want is for it to be that easy. Let the past ordeal with the Alternians be folded into the softness of the moment as Dirk retrieves the teapot and herbs needed for this intimate piece of alchemy. You want to go back to the tentative stability of before, stagnant but _known_.

You don’t think that will happen, though. Even the familiarity of routine tastes different now, in the way you watch the Prince instead of politely averting your gaze as he works.

Nothing feels easy anymore.

And when he walks you back to your room, Dirk still doesn’t reach out to you at all. You nearly affect a stumble into him just to have _something_ , but the guilt is too strong. Instead you thank him, and bid him goodnight, as if nothing has changed when you know damn well it has.

The Prince of Derse should be betrothed now.

Instead, he has this. He has you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't expect part three this quickly, okay, it's going to be a fucking Ordeal and make part two look like a sunday brunch with bottomless mimosas. /cracks knuckles
> 
> remember, comments are adored.


	3. take a body to desert

Life moves on whether you are ready for it or not.

 

* * *

 

_I understand your concern, but I assure you everything’s better now. As the Prince says, it was simply a very long month. We were likely all recovering from it for a while there, but things are back to normal. Or what passes for normal in the Starshade Court._

_Speaking of, Jane, summer is here, but you and I would not recognize it as such! How the Derse people flourish in these conditions, I’ll never understand._

 

* * *

 

Summer in Derse doesn’t feel much different from springtime. It’s certainly not the hot crush of dry air settling in your lungs or the endless blue skies that you grew up with. The salt air doesn’t roll into Derse, with the ocean so far away. No, here, summer is still a little chilly in the mornings, but at least you see the sun more.

Honestly, as you sit outside on one of the raising stairwells leading up to the spymaster’s tower and look out over the northern countryside, you think Derse looks a unlike itself in the sun. Daylight glints off the intricately carved stone walls and metal fixtures, every piece of silver winking brightly. It would be almost pretty if you were not consumed with nostalgia.

You drink blackberry juice and watch the north horizon, as if you just needed to squint enough and you’d seen home peaking over the treeline.

Dave climbs the steep steps up to you about an hour into your moping. With regard to the season, his violet attire is only two layers thick instead of four or five, and his puffed shoulders give way to no sleeves, instead just pale skin that looks like it has no business being in view of the sun.

You need to ask the royal tailor for some summer clothes. You knew you’d eventually have to, but there is something resigned and final to the act.

You bite down a sigh.

“Hi,” Dave says when he finally defeats the steep stairs to join you.

“Afternoon, Your Grace. What brings you out here?”

“Bored. And wonderin’ where you were.” His nose wrinkles. “Rose said you were homesick. Then Dirk said I should leave you be, but I think being alone when you’re sad just makes things worse and Dirk is weird. Then Rose said Dirk was projecting, and they were _really_ boring after that and were too busy messin’ with each other to talk to me.”

Dave often wanted attention. Sometimes it was a little exhausting, but you considered what it had been like before you came to Derse, with Dirk essentially raising them on his own. Not for the first time, you wonder what happened to their father. It doesn’t seem the time to ask, nor the person.

“What’re you thinking about?” Dave asks.

“The ocean, mostly. The royal palace back home was right on the water. From my bedroom, I could be on the beach in ten minutes. Seven if I hurried. Jane and I used to spend entire days out there. During the summertime, I’d constantly find salt crystals in my hair and on my skin, I was out in the water so much.”

“Sorry you miss it.”

You smooth down his hair. “It’s alright. The awful thing is that even if I _were_ home, I might not go. Jane hasn’t had the time or inclination to accompany me for the past few years.”

“You didn’t go alone.”

“I went on hiking trips alone. The beach by yourself is… different.” Melancholic, really. “But I miss swimming.”

Dave nods vehemently. “Yeah. Yeah! I gotta go talk to Dirk. Later, Jake!”

Just as suddenly as he appeared, the little prince scurries off again, gripping the stone bannister as he takes the steps two at a time, back into the castle. You stare after him, frowning. That was very abrupt.

 

* * *

 

Derse does not have an ocean.

It does have a very wide lake.

“This is really the time for it,” Roxy says at your side. She has an ornate whitestone box under her arm and a very airy pink cloak around her shoulders. “Hot weather makes the stuff in the lake all sleepy during the day, less likely to mess with ya.”

“You call this _hot_ \-- and what? What’s in the lake?”

Ahead of you, Rose lets out a bellchime of a laugh. “Exactly what you would _expect_ to live in a deep, dark lake in the kingdom of demons and ghosts and whatnot.”

“There’s no such thing as ghosts, Princess,” Dirk chides her.

“But demons and whatnot?” you can’t help asking.

Dirk shrugs. “Not really my domain. I leave them to Roxy.”

Roxy slaps a hand against your back. “I’ve got ‘em handled, sunspark, don’t you worry.”

It is not reassuring at all.

Regardless, somehow your simpering memories of the Prospitan ocean had developed into a trip to the lake. Dave must’ve been very convincing, to gather the whole family together. But it’s Thursday, the day Dirk tries to reserve for himself, and Roxy is always overeager to get away from her spymaster duties.

Seeing Dersians out of their heavy finery is so strange, it almost makes you uncomfortable. Roxy’s attire is obscured by her cloak, but you keep catching glimpses of her long pale legs as she walks. Rose has some sort of little poofy dress complete with ribbons; you’re _fairly_ sure if you throw her into the water, she’ll float. Dave has on shorts and naught else, and has run ahead of everyone else to stand on the lake’s dock. Dirk has similar wading trousers, but also a long sleeved skintight piece similar to his sparring outfit. He still manages to look distractingly indecent.

You’ve got wading shorts, almost obscured by the long airy tunic you’ve pulled over top, a little bashful about showing off any skin to the family. The habitual Dersian absence of modesty hasn’t quite sunk into you yet.

But the entire thing feels _so strange_. You had outings like this back home all the time, they were a normal part of your life. Experiencing one with the royal family brings a skewed nostalgia to mind, similar pieces and settings seen through a tilted mirror.

There is heat in your cheeks that has nothing to do with the weather.

The lake is almost preternaturally still with a long dark wood dock stretched out into the water. You are loathe to disturb the visage until Dave leaves his shoes on the dock and hops into the water.

He immediately yelps and hauls himself back out. “It’s cold! Ffff-- frig, it’s so cold!”

“Don’t throw yourself in until I check it, Davey, honestly!” Roxy hurries along, dropping the box onto the dock and reaching the edge, leaning over it with an ear cocked to the water.

“Alright, honestly, what’s in the lake?” you whisper to Dirk.

Dirk quirks an eyebrow, seeming to consider for a moment whether he wants to tell you. He settles on tapping his temple with two fingers and saying, “Voices.”

 _Oh_.

By the time Roxy springs back to inform everyone, “They aren’t gonna bother us, it’s fine,” everyone’s set up a little space on the dock. The sun is fully out today, and you pull off your tunic, blushing but eager to feel the heat on your skin for a while.

You only catch Dirk looking once. Either he keeps his eyes to himself after or he’s more subtle about it.

The moment Roxy gives the all clear, Dirk springs into the lake in a surprisingly graceful dive. As he vanishes under the water, Roxy sighs loudly. “We’re not going to see him again for an hour.”

“That’s fine. He’d only divert Jake from the task at hand,” Rose says, shutting her book (something about the history of domesticated birds), and setting it aside.

“I have a task,” you say. It’s not even a question. Of course you have a task.

“Dave and I don’t know how to swim. You’ll teach us.” She steps back up the dock, to where the water is shallower, and sits on the edge to drop herself in. “I saw it in the dregs of my tea this morning.”

You cross your arms over your chest, looking at her as she wades out.

“That was a joke,” she says. “My tasseomancy had far more grim predictions for me today.”

“Oh my god, Rosey,” Roxy says, letting out a giant laugh.

The water _is_ very cold at first, for that initial adjustment period that all water has. It takes a lot of coaxing to get Dave to hop in, but you manage. Both the twins hold onto your arms as you walk them back to where the water comes up to your neck, well over their heads but still close to the dock.

Under your feet, there are pebbles so smooth they feel soft against your heels. Nothing like the sand of the ocean back home. Everything conspires to remind you of the distance; the lack of real shore, the long dock, the quiet of the lake. The surface is so calm and placid, every once in a while you catch a shift out of the corner of your eye, and it startles you every time. You try not to think about it.

Rose takes to swimming quickly, though you still suspect her ruffly swimwear might be giving her some extra buoyancy. Dave is _far_ less interested in learning, and keeps clinging to your back rather than supporting himself in the water.

Roxy was not exaggerating much about Dirk. The most you see of him is his head popping up above the surface periodically to take a breath before he’s gone again. The Prince is like a fish, so adept and quick in the waves. It’s completely unexpected.

Out of the water, you sit on the edge of the dock while the twins rest and eat. Roxy’s beside you; she’s not taken off her cloak, just swung her feet into the water and watched everyone.

You discover what her stone box is for. She opens it and pulls out two chilled bottles by the necks. “Now… one of these is juice and the other is wine…” She pops the cork off one and presses it to her lips, taking a sip. “Ah, yep, this is mine.” The other bottle she passes back to children, taking another swig of hers.

“You’re not swimming then?”

“The view is fine from here,” she says, prodding your bare shoulder with a fingertip and snickering when you flush. “I’m happy to be out. Always nice of ya to think of me, sunspark.”

“Of course.” The details of Roxy’s work as spymaster escape you, but you know she is fairly well sequestered in her tower with the crows. In her position, you’d want to take any excuse to leave, just to get free for an afternoon.

As you sit and share the bottle of wine, Dirk finally resurfaces, so suddenly he startles you. His hand curls around the edge of the dock, his chest moving as he takes deep, steady breaths of air.

Roxy pokes a toe against his hair. “Are you done? Do you have to turn a nice relaxing family day into an exercise routine? Can’t you just have some _fun_ , Your _Majesty_?”

Dirk grabs her ankle, holding it aside, and looks up at Roxy for a moment. He’s quiet for a beat too long, and even _you_ know what’s going to happen before it does.

Roxy has enough time to yelp, “No no no no!” and try to brace herself before Dirk throws himself back and hauls Roxy bodily off the dock and into the water. She lets out a shriek as she disappears under the water, splash and ripples haloing out from the spot.

Dirk pops up again, dragging his soaked hair out of his face. Next to him, Roxy resurfaces too. “Oh, I am going to skin you! Broderick Strider, you evil bastard, come here!”

The Prince smirks and cuts his way back to the dock. As soon as he’s close, you pull your legs up onto the dock, eyeing him warily. He notices, and lets out a sharp, quick laugh before hauling himself out of the water.

“It’s _freezing_ in here! Oh, Jake, honey, tell me you saved the wine.”

“I have it, Roxy, it’s safe,” you tell her. She paddles around, struggling to dislodge herself from her cloak. When she manages, she throws it at Dirk, the soaked fabric hitting him with a painful sounding smack.

He takes her vacated seat next to you and starts wringing out the cloak. “I’m having fun now,” he says.

Roxy oddly doesn’t seem eager to get out of the water now that she’s in it. The slip she was wearing under her cloak is wet in ways that force you to avert your eyes, but she makes no moves to follow Dirk. Instead, she floats on her back, limbs stretched wide, and shuts her eyes.

The wine bottle is lifted from its place between your legs, and Dirk avails himself to a gulp of it before grimacing. “I don’t suppose Roxy brought something that _isn’t_ alcoholic.”

“For the twins, certainly.”

Dirk checks behind him, at where Dave and Rose are dozing in the sun, and shakes his head. “Fine then.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, bent steeply. His entire chest moves with every breath he takes. His frown persists as he looks at the bottle, but he takes another sip, making the same grimace again after.

“You can swim,” you mention quietly. “Rather-- pretty bloody phenomenally, if I’m honest.”

Dirk nods once. “Before… when I wasn’t…” He sucks in a breath and lets it out as a tense sigh. “When I was younger, I had a lot of time to myself, and I enjoyed spending it away from the castle. The lake was always available.”

You want to ask more, but there is a faint tension to Dirk’s words, and you’re loathe to break the peacefulness of the moment. Instead, you put your feet back into the water, swishing them around, and listen to the Prince catch his breath.

You look askance at him. His head is bowed, mouth open as he breathes in and out like a bellows, smoother and slower with every iteration. He has freckles. You knew about the ones on his face, slight spots across the bridge of his nose, under his eyes. There are more scattered against his shoulders, disappearing under the hem of his shirt.

Belatedly, you see Dirk’s turned his head just enough to watch you, his eyes unwavering as he stares at you staring at him.

You look away, at the treeline beyond the lake, so much heat in your face you want to throw yourself back into the lake. 

He says nothing, and you are _pathetically_ grateful for his sporadic moments of mercy.

The day drags on. It’s nothing like home. But for the moment, that suits you fine.

 

* * *

 

The idea of _before_ does not leave you.

The Prince has a way of speaking that he doesn’t usually divert from. He’s calm, and thoughtful in the literal sense, taking his time before speaking to pick the words and line them up before they pass his lips. It’s expected for a ruler, though you are sometimes curious if he was taught or if he’d been careful before.

Before, before, before _what_.

To your genuine regret, you realize you don’t know much at all about Derse. Or, how it really works. Growing up with stories of the demons that walked the halls of the Derse castle and laid with anyone who didn’t leave a candle burning all night-- they aren’t useful now that you’ve lived there and remained unaccosted by any nightly hands, demon or otherwise. Perhaps Jane had known more, given her position, but it wasn’t important to you until your diplomatic trip across the southern border.

Now, you don’t want to bother Dirk with your question, given the tension in his answers, and the twins are too young.

Luckily Roxy is very fond of you.

Far afield, you follow Roxy as she traipses through the forest. She has a roll of parchment with a list with accompanying drawings, herbs to search for. Most you’ve never seen before or heard of. At the very least, she seems to know what she’s doing, and leads the way in a practiced path from point to point. You’re unsure you should be privy to the knowledge of where these particular rare flora are, but say nothing of it.

“Roxy,” you ask at the back of her head as you follow her. “Are we friends?”

The question makes her slow, looking over her shoulder with a bemused smile. “Are we…. yeah, sunspark, we’re friends.”

“I’d hoped so but I’ve been known to... anyway, if I were to engage in a flagrant display of ignorance, would you keep it between us?”

“ _Flagrant_ is such a good word. Yeah, sure, what’s goin’ on?”

“Is there… god, I can’t believe I’ve waited this bloody long to ask.” You sigh, but push on. “Is there a Dersian _king?_ ”

Roxy laughs, but stifles it quickly. “Oh, honey. Okay, I suppose we don’t really make discussions of this stuff part of international news. We consider it a pretty private affair. But, no. There isn’t a king. But there is.”

“Uh,” you say expressively.

“We won’t have a king until Dirk marries. But to you, he’s already _functionally_ the king, right? In Derse, there’s no difference between the Crown Prince and the King except a royal spouse or consort.” She comes to a stop by a fallen silverwood tree. It’s long dead, the bark heavily peeled and soft wood underneath gone dry enough to crumble as Roxy digs her gloved hands into its old flesh, unearthing queer green mushrooms from within. “Or, I think the King can instate monuments and holidays, or something? But like, things nobody gives a damn about. Dirk’s the monarch, thank the fucking gods of the Deeps for that.”

“Was…” Leaning on another nearby upright silverwood, you watch her work. “There was someone before, then?”

“Obviously.” She grunts as she shoves the mess into a compartment of her satchel, then makes a face at the lingering mush on her hands. “Blurgh. But, yeah. Old King. Broderick the First. I’d spit on his grave but it’d be a waste of good spit.”

“Oh?” Trying to sound politely interested instead of voraciously curious is no easy task.

“He wasn’t always horrible, but… Got a little too friendly with the demons and spirits around here. We think he got possessed by one in the last year or two. That or his brain went to the Deeps and never came back.”

“Your royalty communes with--”

“Not any-fucking-more,” she said viciously. Her lips pursed, contrite. “That’s my job now. The person on the throne isn’t let to commune with anybody. They _can’t_ , we make sure of it.”

This is suddenly a lot to take in. You don’t know _which_ thing to focus on. “You-- then, you talk to…”

Her expression brightens instantly. “Yep! I’m damn good at it. Appeasin’ old gods and keeping the more mischievous spirits on a tight leash. I figure it’s the least I can do since Dirk kept my foolish ass off the throne.” A darkness flashes over her face, so quick you barely catch it. “Least I can do.”

“You were in line as well?”

She nods, and sets off again. You fall in beside her.

“No one’s mentioned this old king,” you point out.

“Well, most of us don’t like to think about him. And the twins were _very_ young when he gratefully died.”

You frown, thinking of Dirk with his crown, and the faint lines on his face, just pale frown lines and the ghost of future crows feet. “How long ago?”

Roxy blows out a long, low breath. “Comin’ up on… seven years now, I think?”

That _can’t_ be right. “How old is Dirk?”

She smirks humorlessly. “Twenty-five. Yeah, it shouldn’t have been allowed. Age of majority here is 20. But there were some seriously extenuating circumstances, so he was coronated early. The advisors helped him out the first two years. Well…” Her hair swishes as she cocks her head sharply to the side. “More like the first year. Then they figured Dirk pretty much knew what he was doing.”

You try to imagine it in your mind’s eye. Dirk, but smaller. Maybe narrower in body, except around the face, more youthful roundness to his cheeks. Subtracting the years from him leaves you with the vague idea of a gangly tall teenager with a crown too heavy for his head.

He’s your age. You try to put yourself there; eighteen and on the throne, running a kingdom. The shot of fear through your heart is almost a physical pain. Even now, you can scarcely conceive…

You fall into silence, watching the ground in front of you as you think it over. It does answer some things about Dirk, that’s for certain.

So deep in thought, it takes you a moment to realize Roxy’s left your side. You turn to see her peering upward, through the trees, hand lifted to shield her eyes.

Her arm extends, and as if she created it from the shadows themselves, a crow appears there, settling on her arm.

It has taken months for you not to recoil at the sight of all the jet black birds that make their home here. But you’ve had to; the damned things are _everywhere_ , and as welcome as housecats in Derse.

“Oh, do we have a guest joining us?” you ask, forcing some brightness into your voice.

“Shh!” She gives you a sharp, slicing gesture with her free hand, eyes on the crow, lifting the bird to her eye level. It looks back at her, letting out a cry, that quick laughing sound that often fills the castle at odd hours.

Roxy opens her mouth and…

You’re not entirely sure what happens then.

She speaks, but the sounds don’t make sense. Her words don’t match the movement of her lips, like listening to some unseen outsider talk while she mouths nonsense. It’s _incredibly_ awkward to watch, making something crawl up the column of your spine.

You turn your head away, shutting your eyes, taking a shuddering breath until the weird sensation of Otherness fades.

The gibberish speech eventually stops. You keep your eyes shut. “You talk to the crows. You _actually_ talk to them. That’s not just a story.”

“Jake.”

You look at her carefully, unsure what to do with the strange, blatant display of magic. It’s foreign, even after seeing Derse littered with magical items. Elixirs and floating chess games have nothing when compared to Derse’s spymaster speaking magical corvid language.

There is a flat, cool set to her face. If anything, it’s even worse than the overt magic; her resemblance to Dirk is suddenly very, very obvious.

“You need to go back to the castle.”

“What? What’s wrong?”

Roxy strokes two fingers over the crow’s head. “It’s not for me to say. You should go, now. Do you know the way?”

“Of… of course. Will you be alright?”

“Just fine, sunspark. You get going.”

You leave Roxy in the forest, and head back through the underbrush as quickly as you can without breaking out into a run, a disquiet feeling in your chest.

 

* * *

 

Dave is crying, sitting in Dirk’s armchair as the Prince kneels next to him, wiping his face with a handkerchief. His eyes are smudged red, cheeks splotchy pink, a stark contrast to Dirk’s pale countenance.

Dave hiccups, the sound painful and wracking his shoulders, and rubs his face.

You wonder if you should just silently slip out of the room again. Before you can decide, Dave looks up at you, and sucks in a sharp breath.

“I’m sorry!” he shouts, and bursts into tears anew. Dirk shakes his head silently, and pulls him in until Dave’s cheek is resting on his shoulder.

You jerk forward, wanting to do… something, but not sure what. There is  chance you are intruding, but you’re no longer certain, stuck in this place where you almost belong.

“M’sorry, I’m so sorry,” Dave says between the upset sounds forcing their way out of his throat.

“It’s alright, you couldn’t have known,” the Prince murmurs into Dave’s ear. “It doesn’t work that way.”

That for some reason makes the boy shudder harder, rubbing his face into Dirk’s shoulder.

It takes several minutes for Dave to calm down enough for Dirk to risk letting him go and standing, finally facing you.

“The King of Prospit has died,” he tells you.

“Oh,” you say.

Then, “Excuse me, please,” before retreating to your quarters.

 

* * *

 

_Oh, Jane. I’m so sorry._

 

* * *

 

When you were very small, your grandmother was Queen, and then she wasn’t anymore. Your uncle was King. He was a tall man with striking features, who you had met once or twice but did not know very well.

He was kind, and ushered you into the room you’d be sharing with your cousin, who was just a year younger than you and fed the aching loss in your chest with sweetness and affection. She was your family, and held you tight on the nights you woke up crying after dreaming of fire and _Look away, Jake, close your eyes, don’t watch._

You lay in bed, staring at the sunlight pouring out over your floor, and wonder if anyone is there to hold her right now.

The King was never more than a distant face and a strong, warm voice. But Jane had loved him desperately, and you never wanted her to know that pain.

More than anything, you want to be there for her.

Instead, you lay around and do nothing, which is starting to become a bad habit of yours. It is all you are capable of sometimes, though. Before, you were meant to serve at her side, her right hand to reach where she could not. Now, you are _well_ out of her reach, dozing in your room with the window open, letting the briskly cool breeze of Derse rustle your hair while the last of the Prospitan royal family bears the weight of the entire kingdom on her shoulders.

At least your useless spell doesn’t last long this time. Every day, someone checks on you: Rose, with her predictions that you will be fine soon. Dave, with quiet apologies and hugs. Roxy, with a big tempting bottle of something rich and intoxicating.

Day four, you ask the maid to draw up a bath. You clean yourself and shave, and venture out of your room, inordinately proud of yourself for your initiative.

The royal wing is quiet this morning. Its early enough the twins seem to be still asleep. Normally you are not awake at this hour, but three days of nothing but mourning and rest have you fully alert and eager to see _anyone_.

You check the war room to no avail. Then the dining room, with still nothing. There are curtains drawn in the library, a dimness to the room abated by candlelight, ignoring the bright daylight outside.

The Prince is sitting at one of the tables, licking his thumb and flicking through a book with narrowed eyes. Across from him, Roxy sits with her feet up on the table, legs crossed at the ankle.

The beginning of the conversation is a mystery, but as you let yourself in, you overhear Roxy say with warm jocularity, “Well, we’re givin’ them enough of our blood, why not a mop to go with it?”

You pause almost midstep, eyes widening.

Dirk’s eyes flick up to yours, then across his book at Roxy. “What?” When she goes unanswered, she finally turns and sees you. Her face goes pink. “ _Any_ way, you’ll figure it out!” Her boots thump against the floor as she gets to her feet. “Sunspark, you’re lookin’ peaky, sit, sit, there’s tea left. I’ve… got stuff to do. Reports to write, birds to feed, you know how it is.”

She squeezes your shoulder as she passes and heads out the way you came in.

In the eddies of awkwardness left in her wake, Dirk sighs. “I love my sister. I do. I feel I have to remind myself of this fact on a regular basis.”

You take the vacated seat near Dirk, and offer a wan smile. “I don’t mind. What were you discussing?”

“Coronation gifts. Derse has not sent one to Prospit for many, many years.” His fingers tap against the paper of the book. “I was thinking about a copse of silverwood trees.”

You nod, and pour yourself tea. “That’s a lovely gesture. And I think at this point, given the history between Derse and Prospit, any genuine gesture will be treasured regardless of the actual gift.”

Dirk lets out a hum and marks something down on parchment.

The silence stretches across the space between you, prolonged and teetering on the verge of becoming awkward before settling warm. It’s only broken by the sound of Dirk’s pen scratching the page and the softest clink of your spoon against the side of your cup as you stir your tea.

You are aware of Dirk’s eyes flicking up periodically to check on you. For a while, you pay it no mind, seeing it as simple attention. It’s not out of place given your past few days sequestered in your chambers, and you find you don’t mind being fretted over. But by the time you are on your second cup, you ask, “Does His Majesty have a question?”

The corner of Dirk’s mouth shifts into the very start of a smile. “His Majesty is not one to pry.”

“His Majesty is barely looking at his work, so he should probably say what’s on his mind.” You take a breath. “If this is about… the past few days, I’m alright, honestly. It’s vexing but I seem to… fall under the weather at the worst moments. Like the shock of things makes me sick. I don’t mean to be a bother.”

“You aren’t. And I’m glad to hear you’re feeling better.” Dirk’s lips press together, a pale white line. “It’s difficult to know how to help.”

“It’s passed.”

“Good. Thought that isn’t what I wanted to--” He stops hard, and takes his time redipping his pen into the inkwell. “I’d like to ask you something.”

“Of course.”

“Your cousin will be Queen soon. Within a fortnight, if Roxy is correct, and she tends to be to my great dismay and benefit.” You snort, and Dirk gives you the faint acknowledgement of a lifted eyebrow before continuing. “But, why were you not first in line? You’re a year older than the princess and share the same royal lineage.”

Oh. You set your cup down, and stare down into the dregs that drift idly along the bottom.

“You need not answer if it doesn’t please you.”

“No, no, it’s fine. It’s a fair question. I’ve been asking my own about Derse, so…” You trail off and fidget with your teacup, using a finger to spin it slowly around on your saucer. “It’s not so simple as normal succession rules. My grandmother was the Queen, and I was her direct descendant. But then we had our King, rest his old soul, and Jane’s his only child. We both had equal claim. So it was… decided that Jane would be first in line, and I was trained to be her aide.”

“Decided,” Dirk echoes. He always does that, imbuing your simple words with something more just by repeating them. It never bodes well. “Because your grandmother?”

“My… no.” You can’t help but frown, confused. “I don’t know what you mean, but no, the-- the regents passed down the decree. Said I had the wrong temperament. They explained it very well, it made sense.”

“When was this?”

“When I was fourteen.” You remember it vividly, that dark room under the palace and the old gentlemen who might’ve lived down in that dark place; you never saw them outside the undercity. You remember being told you would never wear the crown. It seems so far away now, and you’ve long, _long_ since come to terms with the fact, to the point that imagining yourself on the Sunburst throne seems like an absurd dream.

“I lacked the emotional fortitude, or somesuch malarkey,” you add, because Dirk’s stare has not abated at all. “Which is true enough, I suppose.”

“Is it.”

“Dirk, I just had to have a three day long lie down over-- over someone I-- we were not very close. It’s probably a fair assessment. The regents help us keep Prospit on the up and up, they know what the kingdom needs.”

He lowers his gaze finally, and you take a shaking breath. The beat in the conversation is discordant, unnatural, like a missed note in a song. You wait for Dirk to respond, but something holds his tongue. You are somewhat relieved. Talking about it makes you feel pinched and raw all over again, like the day you were named the superfluous heir.

The entire line of thought is uncomfortable, but you work up the courage to say something anyway, if only to turn the table on him. Lest he ask you more questions that make your chest hurt. “Roxy told me some things about your predecessor. You were crowned at eighteen, that’s _terrifying_.”

“But necessary.” Dirk has his pen in hand again, but doesn’t dip it in the ink, simply holding it.

“She said…” As soon as you start to ask, your voice falters. But the topic has been nagging at you all this time, pecking away at the back of your head enough through your stint of lethargic sadness.

“Go on.”

“She said the old king was possessed by demons, but that you can’t be? I’m not sure-- Prospitans don’t _toy_ with magic like Dersians do, so I don’t know what that’s all about but it seems… important?” You are wilting as you speak and already regret bringing it up.

“Roxy communes with demons and spirits for information. They have insight we don’t, that we cannot even understand. But they can get their claws in you if you aren’t careful. Or if you don’t _care_ ,” Dirk says, turning a page of one of his books. You don’t think he knows what he’s reading. “My father didn’t. So, here I am.”

“And you’re… you were made immune, somehow? That seems like damned useful magic.”

He lets out a faint hum and sets down his pen, appearing to give up on the facade of disinterest. “How about this, Jake. I will trade you.”

You go still as a small animal in the shadow of a hawk. “Trade?”

“An answer for an answer,” he intones, voice dropping low, soft enough you almost want to lean in to hear him. “Honesty paid in kind.”

What started as idle inquiry seems a great deal more serious now. But you can’t help but edge closer, resting your crossed arms on the table. “I can agree to those terms, Your Highness. It’d be your question then, I believe?”

Dirk nods. “Did you _want_ the regents to pick you?”

It’s an unkind question softly given, his voice almost weirdly gentle and quiet between you.

You remember the stone room without windows. You remember the strange men in their high chairs, reading aloud their decision. But you remember the cold most of all, how it stung your knees and arms as you stood down there.

You lick your lips. “I don’t… Perhaps I wanted to be considered? I don’t disagree with their decision. But I did always want to be… important to someone.”

“For whatever it’s worth, you are.” When you breathe a laugh, Dirk’s eyes catch yours. “You are. You handle the twins so well, it helps immensely. You help keep Roxy from going stircrazy. You’re…” He clears his throat, looking away, at his fingers, rubbing at the spots of ink there.

There’s heat in your cheeks, but you can’t bear to hear more now. So, “It’s my turn then, is it? Right, uh…” As Dirk waits, you feel the same sensation as carrying a loaded firearm. The potential for danger in your grip. “Did _you_ wish to be king?”

A surprised blink makes it past the impassive mask of Dirk’s face. “That’s a strange question.”

“You--” You wave a hand emphatically. “You asked me much the same!”

“Oh. I suppose I did.” He drums his fingers against the table as he considers it. “I knew it would be me.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“At the time, yes, it was. Ask something else if you are dissatisfied.”

Fine. You take your time, thinking about it. Dirk refills his tea as you watch his hands. He takes it without milk, but sweeter than you would have guessed. Eventually, the right question hits you. “Rose sees the future. Dave sees…. the dead. What do you see?”

“Nothing.” Curt, clipped. Suddenly, a shutter draws over Dirk’s warm tangerine summer eyes, and you almost feel struck. Especially when Dirk continues in the same breath: “What happened to the old Queen, to earn such an end?”

You balk immediately, startled and upset at the gall of it. He’s made a mess of a soft morning discussion, and you don’t know why. Perhaps it’s his idea of revenge for your question.

You could just not answer, but you don’t want to be defeated so easily. You have more things you want to ask. “I don’t remember. It happened when I was very young, too young to understand, and they don’t-- we don’t speak of such things.” Taking his example, you barrel on into your question. “Did you have the sort of magic your siblings do, before?”

“That wasn’t an answer,” Dirk says. His gaze is not the comfort it once was, but you cannot look away. There’s a challenge there. You want to meet it.

“It was, and it was honest. Our ways aren’t like yours.”

“Fine.” He pauses only a second before his answer. “I did. I don’t anymore.”

“Why not?”

Dirk smirks, more than a little mean. It fits his face more naturally than a smile. “Not your turn.”

“Your answer was obtuse and I can ask another. Or are you changing the rules?”

His teeth show. “Is _that_ your question now?”

You cross your arms and lean back in your chair, waiting.

He watches you with an intensity you can only call _hungry_ for a moment, eager for what you’ll do, if you’ll snap back at him again. The keen light in his eyes that emerges every time you show him some bite should be worrying. But now, you just withhold it until he sighs and relents, nodding.

“I used to have some… affinity. But given how our last sovereign fell, we needed to ensure such things did not happen again. My father made… poor decisions.” A grimace takes over Dirk’s face before he puts it cleanly away, cool and blank again after. “The day I was coronated, they ensured I wouldn’t fall prey to the same things.”

“But how?”

He doesn’t answer right away, instead staring into your eyes. Whatever he’s looking for, he seems to find, and continues: “A hardening of the heart. That’s what they called it, but it was just a euphemism for some ritual. It made me safer, and we were in sore need of safety.”

The fire in your gut is blown out like a candlelight, leaving something nervous and regretful behind. “Hardening your heart. What… does that entail?”

“No,” Dirk tells you, his stare making your eyes water now in your desperation to hold it. You fear even blinking might break this _thing_ settled around you. “My turn. When you came to Derse, who decided you would ask me to dance? Was that you or your esteemed princess?”

Your mouth goes dry. This game no longer seems fair. But against the Prince of Derse, few are. He plays so viciously, and you feel thrown by it.

But it means something, and your curiosity is unabated. Stroked to a greater flame, if anything. You swallow past the tightness in your throat. “You wouldn’t have… I didn’t…” It’s harder than you thought, even after so long. “Does it matter?”

“Ultimately, no. Was it you or her?”

Part of you desperately wants to stop this. Just stand and leave. Everything inside you still feels raw and vulnerable, and Dirk’s eyes burn as they hold yours. It makes you want to cower.

You could never have been a king.

“Jane thought…” You suck in a breath. “I didn’t know you then. I was nervous, and it was my first time out of Prospit. And things were so dire. When she suggested it, I…”

You don’t know what about this Dirk is looking for. What he could possible gain from a painful memory.

But he seems to get it.

The Prince’s gaze slides away, to the middle distance off your shoulder. You’ve caught him doing that so many times, dozing with his eyes open. Where he goes in his own head, you don’t know. “I don’t know what was involved. It was apparently imperative I never learned. They gave me a draught for dreamless sleep, and when I woke up it was done.”

“What did it do?”

Just as quick, as if he was prepared: “Are you unhappy here?”

You don’t stop to think about it. You don’t want to slow down enough _to_ think right now. “No.”

The Prince seems satisfied with that, nodding. “It’s difficult to explain. I lost the hindsight of before they did it. I get the impression things were more vibrant back then.”

“What was?”

“Everything. The world’s a little further away. Or there’s something in the way. It’s as though a dark glass was put over my eyes. I don’t remember what things were like before, so it’s hard to put into words. I just know things are different. Greyer.”

“Greyer,” you repeat with numb lips. “That sounds… awful.”

He shrugs. “You have to be aware of the loss to feel it. And besides, I understand the need for it.”

“Oh, Dirk...”

He looks down at the table, frowning. “It's fine. It's not everything.” His words are halting, his usual even cadence broken and forgotten. “Some things... are still bright.”

You know your next question. You already know the answer, you think.

“What things?” you whisper.

Dirk lets out a slow breath. “Not your turn.” Abruptly, he stands, picking up his parchment, his eyes on his hands and not on you. “I have to see about this coronation gift. Excuse me.”

He leaves, and doesn’t ask you anything more. You feel terribly cheated.

 

* * *

 

Coronation Day comes and goes. In the land of Derse, it’s just a random weekday.

You spend too much of the afternoon sitting out on the buttressed stairway, your hands twisted in the wrought iron fence that pens in the steps, pressing as hard as you can wanting to feel _something_.

No matter how high you climb in Castle Derse and how hard to stare entreatingly at the horizon line, Prospit remains lost to you.

A new age is dawning and you are not there to see it.

 

* * *

 

When that strange mania hits you again, you don’t even know why.

At least with the Alternian delegation you could blame the stresses of the situation on having the finned witch queen herself swanning around and toying with your Prince; there was _cause_ for it.

This time, it’s different. This time, Dirk doesn’t say anything to you to set you off, doesn’t _do_ anything to you (because he never does, never).

It’s the end of the day with the sun setting, turning the distant line of trees to a conflagration through the window, the sky shot through with so much red and orange and gold. It’s just barely light enough that Dirk hasn’t lit any candles yet as he sits in his armchair, his fingertips resting against an ornately carved piece of bone, a token in some strategy game you’ve never seen before. He’s been at it for hours now, enjoying the quiet of his Thursday evening.

He’s spent so much time contemplating what his next move in this game against himself will be that… you suspect he is simply somewhere else again. It’s certainly possible he’s just planning four moves in advance, planning for the contingencies he needs in his exercise, but as the minutes stretch and his eyes go half-lidded, you think Dirk’s just gotten lost in his own head again, as he’s wont to do.

You’re free to stare at Dirk over the edge of your book as long as you please this way.

You’ve really got to stop doing that.

It is not that you are _alone_. You have more attention here than you would have back home, truthfully. Dave is an eager student and ally in all things with his own desperate need for affection. Rose has her ways, but you are not fooled by her sharp tongue when you often cannot so much as breathe in her direction without her engaging in some repartee. And Roxy takes to excursions and outings like you had always hoped Jane would, indulgent as melted chocolate to your whim. In Derse, you know plenty.

Yet, you still feel a deep absence inside, like starvation. And watching Dirk this way makes it twist even more painfully, like a pauper standing in the grandest bazaar surrounded by endless wealths of food.

The Prince’s softly unfocused eyes. The bone piece he spins deftly over the backs of his fingers like a coin trick. The light press of his teeth against his lower lip. The day’s been warm, especially for Derse, and the top buttons of his shirt are undone, giving you that peek of dagger blade collarbone when you tilt your head to watch him.

It’s all fodder for later, in a way, shamefully squirreled away for private consideration when you’re alone. But more and more, just thinking about Dirk touching you doesn’t seem like enough anymore.

Because you are a fool and don’t know when to just sit and stew in your own thoughts, you break Dirk’s concentration to ask, “Can we have a scrum?”

Dirk blinks, like coming out of a sleep, and now you _know_ he was off in a daydream. “What?”

This is your one shot to back down, and instead you charge on like a drunken bull. “I happen to know you enjoy your sparring matches, that’s no secret, and while your family is very kind about indulging me in so many ways, I can’t very well have a wrestle with Roxy-- though I’ve no doubt she’d somehow win-- and I thought it’d be good fun to see how much of my finesse I’ve squandered away with a lack of practice and my own laziness.”

Dirk frowns. “A-- what, sparring? You want to spar.”

It’s really unfairly precious, having Dirk at a verbal disadvantage, brief as it always is. “I thought it’d be fun, and it’s a slow evening, it seems. You’ve not made a move in your game for almost an hour.”

There is the barest hint of a very Rose-like pout to his mouth. “It’s a very challenging game.”

“I’ve no doubt.” You stand, brushing your hands over your trousers, helping them reach your knee properly. Getting them made, proper shorts in deference to the summer, was a brilliant idea, even if it makes you feel a little underdressed around the royal family. At least Dave thinks they’re fetching, but you’re not sure you trust his opinion. “If your next move requires so much deliberation and forethought, Your Highness, perhaps you could think it over during some exercise. I imagine it’ll get your mind jogging.”

Dirk arches an eyebrow at you. “I think you only call me ‘Your Highness’ when it most amuses you.”

“Or when I want something,” you admit boldy, and take a moment to bow at the waist. “Your Majesty.”

That makes Dirk _laugh_ , a quick stutter of noise you so rarely hear, before he covers it like something shameful. “Sparring. Alright.” He gingerly sets his game on the table and stands. “I cannot imagine you with a sword, wooden or otherwise.”

“Would hand-to-hand be too pedestrian for you?”

It’s not, you find out. Dirk excuses himself to change, and you would follow his example if you were not already dressed down for the day in the casual wardrobe of a man who _doesn’t_ have a dozen royal duties to handle before noon. You wait for him in the courtyard and try to stretch without having a fit in the anticipation of this.

You are so nervous and eager, the feeling clashes in your belly, making you lean on your knees to take some deep breaths against the nausea.

“You can’t be that out of shape,” Dirk opines as he steps out. His hands are empty, and that lean dark sparring outfit of his looks even more snug this close.

Your entire body aches a little bit, and you nearly reconsider this entire venture. There is a real chance you are going to make a fool of yourself.

“I used to do this all the time. Dragged our guards into scrums when I was feeling like this.” A small lie, you’ve never felt _like this_ before in your life. You stand, and bounce on your toes, as if this is a normal day.

“Surprising.” Dirk paces slowly to face you, standing on some mark you can’t see. “I was given to understand Prospitans frowned on violence.”

“Shows what you know. It’s not _violence_ , it’s…” You shuffle back to about where your mark should be. “A dance, it’s fun. Is it not for you?”

“It’s training,” Dirk says. “But I am not a peacekeeper.”

You always knew that in your heart, what Dirk was. No, not a peacekeeper at all. “Best of three, then?”

“What are the rules here?” Dirk asks.

One long stride, two, and you throw a slow punch at Dirk’s shoulder, just to watch the way he moves out of your path, eyes flying wide. His hands float out as he moves, almost lost without a sword to hold. He quick steps around you in an arc, and you turn to follow his movement, grinning.

“Right,” Dirk says. “Best of three.”

You hop towards him, then spring back off your toe, delighting in how fast he reacts, darts to the side. He’s avoidant, moves at angles, like a bishop. It’s something you make note of as you let him go.

You always did like this dance better than any ballroom.

When he continues to make no moves against you, you grow impatient. You jump forward into his path, and catch his forearm as he tries to dodge backward, swinging and pulling him with your weight until he staggers enough; he drops, rolls once, twisting out of your grip, and back to his feet.

Your hand tingles from contact, and Dirk has a rabbit look to him.

“I think I’m getting it,” he says, voice terribly uncertain.

“You’re getting nowhere at this rate, Your Highness.”

He bristles, you knew he would, and you launch at him again, taking a wide swing. It’s easy, a freely given opening, a peace offering. He ducks under and moves _forward_ at last, queen, not bishop, and shoves hard at your hip, making you bend and overbalance.

The ground is hard under you when you land, as is his knee against your gut, his hand pressed flat to your ribs. You’ll bruise, certainly. “One-zero,” you say with a hard exhale.

He springs back, making more distance, and you smile at how _skittish_ he is. Take away his sword, and all the practice and method and surety bled out of him. All the anxious energy that has made its home in your skin catches fire like oil, and you feel it burning you clean as you chase him around your nebulous little arena.

“Make a move, Jake,” Dirk snaps at you the fifth time you goad him into his little circular dodge.

“Fun, Dirk,” you tell him. “Do you remember what it is?”

He advances then, sudden and annoyed, and you take a tap on the shoulder before his leg comes up to hit your side, meaning to topple you. You grab hold of his calf and fall, hearing him gasp as he’s dragged along. As soon as you land, you roll, and put your arm across his neck, pressing down.

“One-one,” you say.

He shoves you back, and rolls to his feet in that particular fluid way of his. It’s nice to watch. You take your time pushing yourself upright, and pull your arm over your chest to stretch the shoulder you’ve just fallen on.

You grab at him when he circles too close. He ducks under your arm, out of reach again, shoves at your back so you stagger forward.

“If you aren’t more careful, you’ll lose,” Dirk tells you.

You laugh and face him again. “That’s a matter of opinion, Your Highness.”

“Do you _want_ to lose, because I can oblige you, _Your Grace_.”

“I daresay we’re working with different parameters.” You feint him again, and he bounces back as ever, then makes a furious noise at himself and tries to trip you. You jump right over it, closer to him, and for once he doesn’t scurry away. With the Prince, everything he does is this negotiation of distance, keeping everything and _you especially_ exactly where he wants them. Breaking past it feels taboo and wonderful.

Now, his hands are lifted, uncertain, waiting for something to parry. You withhold it, not wanting to reach the end of the bout so soon. Already you are wondering if he’ll do this again with you. It feels like the panacea to all of your problems, the heavy weight on your shoulders shrugged off.

Dirk steps in quickly, grabs the front of your shirt. You grab his wrist, hold him still there and smile at his tense surprise. Your Prince really has no idea what to do without a sword in hand. Reach he understands. Leverage, he doesn’t. Not like you.

You step in, and in his effort to maintain the space while you have him held, he nearly falls again. He wisens up, throws himself back and to the right, trying to get loose.

You’ve been doing this far longer, and pivot to follow him, then faster than he can move, forcing him to backpedal desperately to stay on his feet. He changes tactic, to the left; he yanks you taut and forces you to follow until you stumble down on one knee.

You don’t expect him to bowl you over. It’s a rough tackle, being bodily shoved back and down, your leg caught under you as he forces you down with a ferocity you’ve been _trying_ to pull out of him. The hand still in his grip slams against the ground, and his free hand curls around your neck, the faint threat of a choke hold. His weight holds you down, and you let out a hard breath as he pins you.

Your hand settles on his shoulder, like you have a chance to dislodge him, and Dirk pushes your wrist harder against the grass.

You still, and just watch him, braced above you, panting and bright eyed. His grip on you feels like a brand, burning hot. When you swallow, you can feel your neck move against his palm.

He can too, it seems, and something pops with the suddenness of a soap bubble, the fire in his eyes melting into something else as they flick across your face, your neck, back to your eyes. Then, down to your mouth.

That’s two-one. You suck in a deep breath and sigh it out. Let your fingers curl, let your head fall back, let your hand slip from his shoulder to the ground without challenge. Dirk glances down, as if just coming to the realization of how the pieces have fallen between you both in this game.

His eyes settle on your face again, and his lips part like he’s going to speak before he thinks better of it. But his hold on your neck lightens, making you suck in a sharp breath of relieved air. He doesn’t move far, and you cannot see how he moves, but you feel it, the calloused pad of his thumb tracing up, questing up to the soft skin under your jaw, then back to the shivery ticklish skin under your ear.

Your next breath is a sigh, and Dirk moves with the motion of your chest, away, then closer, his knees shifting off you to bracket your hips instead, held up with one hand. The amber of his eyes is a narrow ring around wide dark pupils.

He shifts, and you shift back, untwisting your hips to lay out flat under him. His thumb touches just under your lips and you shut your eyes.

No, not a peacekeeper. A conqueror, even when at a steep disadvantage. The thought is not so scary now as you go pliant under the Prince, thinking vividly, _To the victor_. You wait for his next move, can practically hear that big tangled mind of his deliberating.

He doesn’t put you out of the abject misery you’ve been living in for the past few months. His _move_ , his awful cruel move, is to let you go and climb off you, onto his knees, then to his feet as he leaves you there.

A dismayed cry catches in your throat, and you do _nothing_ but roll onto your side to watch his back retreating back into the castle.

You feel the heat that’s filled you, from his regard and from the joy and the movement, drain out of you all at once, leaving you colder and more hollow than ever.

 

* * *

 

_Jane, I don’t want to be cause for any alarm, but I fear I’m finally losing my mind._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YEAH WE'RE AT FOUR CHAPTERS INSTEAD OF THREE NOW, okay, look, it was just going too long and if i put THIS with what comes NEXT, it'd just be way too much
> 
> also just an aside: i have _never_ had so much fun writing a scene as that sparring scene. i was literally smiling, it was such a delight to _write_. wow.


	4. take a body to the oasis

_I struggle to find the words to explain it to you. There are so many aspects to life here, ones I don’t think you’d understand, and others that are just too private, even between you and I._

_You’d think me bewitched, if you knew what haunted my nights. The threat of nightmares are the least of my problems lately. And worst of all, I do fear I’ve made a dog’s breakfast of it all. The Prince is as distant to me as you are, and I don’t know what to do, nor how to weather his mercurial disposition._

_Derse is so strange, Jane. It’s not just the oddities of life here or cultural differences. The whole land feels alive, and always watching. It’s enough to make a fellow paranoid. And recently I’ve learned some secrets of Derse that I must hold in the utmost confidence, but only serve to exacerbate my worries._

_I am determined to see this through, Jane, do not misunderstand me. But if I don’t say it to someone, I feel it’ll stay bottled up in me like poison. I miss home. I miss simpler times. I miss when it was just the two of us staying up into the night telling barmy stories just to make each other laugh. I miss knowing where I stood._

_I was never strong like you. But the same thing I told you back then, when this all started, is still true today: For Prospit, I’d be anything._

_I just wish I knew what that thing_ was _._

 

* * *

 

To say you don’t discuss the sparring match with the Prince would be a phenomenal understatement.

It’s a chasm between you. Your efforts to bridge it have fallen to broken timber and frayed rope. Given all the time you’ve spent agonizing on the Prince’s carefully maintained distance from you, when he steps back further, when he truly withdraws, you’re left unprepared and reeling.

There are no illusions in your mind that his duties as ruler of Derse are many, but he always made time to spend back in his quarters, entertaining you and his family in his drawing room and being entertained in turn. Now, every evening you check his room, it’s empty and quiet.

The whiplash is exquisitely awful. You had been so close, you thought. You weren’t sure to _what_ , but it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

You don’t see Dirk, and lay up in bed late into the night with just memories of his body against yours, and cannot decide if you should feel guilty about it. It’d be so much easier if you knew why he pulled away.

Dirk paid such a price to keep you here, only to turn tail and run when you finally offer yourself up.

And you feel so damned _lonely_ in his wake.

Life is a repetitive, unyielding thing. It becomes even more without Dirk there, and you let even more slip from your grasp; stop asking Roxy out onto the grounds, stop trying to take your nights in the drawing room, just _stop._

Across the border, Prospit continues to stagger to its feet. A thought occurs to you: what will become of you if Derse withdraws from Prospit? You have no doubt that is still a long way off, but not so much you won’t live to see it.

Will you return to Prospit then? Leave the Prince to his heavy heart in his cold kingdom?

It strikes you as darkly humorous, how terrible you’ve been at this _companion_ role. And you’ve been _trying_.

 

* * *

 

You are so caught up in your dreadful pity party, when the twins have a row, you are completely blindsided.

It’s after supper, another quiet, unhappy affair, and even that has you feeling knackered. You’re eager to retreat to your room for a glass of wine and a book. After you dress down in pyjamas and light some candles, you hear shouting in the hallway, and nearly burn yourself dropping the match.

A loud thump and the sound of crying has you dropping everything and hurrying barefoot out of your room.

You find the children by Dirk’s door. Dave sits with his back against the door, one hand curved around the ornate handle. Rose has the sleeve of his free arm fisted tightly, making a game but unsuccessful attempt to pull him to his feet.

“I _told_ you this would happen, you are making a _scene_.” Rose tells him, terse and angry, pulling hard at his arm.

“Let _go_ , Rose,” Dave snaps, pulling back. “You don’t know everything!”

“I know that this will pass and you need to grow up and be a little patient!”

“I hate this!” She manages to pull him to his feet, and in return, he shoves her, hard enough Rose stumbles three steps back, almost into the wall.

“ _Dave!_ ” You hurry forward, and two pairs of eyes swivel to you, red and lavender and unnaturally bright.

Rather than face you, he turns to the door, kicking it angrily. “This is stupid! Dirk was getting better and now he’s a jerk again! Doesn’t he care!”

“Of course he cares,” you soothe, trying to pull him away from the door. “Don’t do that, he might be resting.”

“It’s not even dark out!” Dave hiccups, and yanks away from you to hit the door again. “What’s so fuckin’ important--”

“ _Language_ ,” Rose snaps, crossing her arms.

“Stop it! You’re allowed to be as mean as you want because you talk nicer and no one gets mad at you!”

The shouting’s gone on entirely too long, and dies down into a hush when the lock on Dirk’s door clicks, and the door swings open. Dirk stands there in its place, one hand on the jam as he stares down at his siblings. “What’s going on?”

You suck in a breath, face heating. “Nothing, Your Highness, just a bit of a tiff--”

Dave’s face crumbles. “You’re callin’ him titles again! And not as a joke!”

That is true, and the realization hits you hard. You glance at Dirk, at the surprise in his own face, before you kneel down to Dave. “Easy there, Dave.”

“What’d he do _now_ , why are things bad again?” He sniffs loudly, and steps into your arms, letting you wrap him up. His head rests against your chest. “You never want to spend time with us anymore.”

Oh, dear. You hadn’t really taken into account how your spell of isolation would affect the twins. Perhaps if it had just been _you_ keeping to yourself, that would have been fine for a time, but you know damn well that Dirk’s kept himself even more scarce. The Prince is as untraceable as a shadow at midnight when he wants to be. Without either of you around, the younger prince’s tender heart clearly broke.

You hug him tightly, rubbing his back. “There, there, easy now.”

Rose huffs loudly. “Oh, right. I should’ve foreseen _this_.”

You feel Dave go stiff in your arms, and shoot Rose a look over his shoulder. “Rose.”

“The moment Dave turns on the waterworks, everyone falls over themselves for him.” Her face is fiercely red, her arms still crossed and fingers digging into her own arms. “Drop everything! The Prince has stubbed his toe and needs to cry about it!”

“Rose, that’s _enough_ ,” you tell her sternly. “Go to your room, we’ll discuss this later.”

Something _burns_ in her face, soft features twisting into almost a snarl. “You are _our guest_ , not our _keeper_.”

Your mouth goes dry, and you can hear your heartbeat in your ears, pounding. Dave’s hands tangled in your shirt tug as he draws himself in, whimpering at the harsh voices.

But she’s right.

“You’re wrong, Princess,” Dirk says finally, voice cool as a winter day. “You’re to listen to Jake as if he were Roxy or me. Now go to your room and we’ll discuss this _later_.”

The reiteration of your command in his voice has Rose looking stricken, all the ferocious color in her cheeks draining away to a ghostly blanch. She looks up at Dirk, then at you, and back. You watch as her face pinches, not with anger this time but upset, and she turns quickly, hurrying off to her room.

“M’sorry,” Dave mumbles into your neck. Then says it again and again.

You look up at Dirk. He’s staring after Rose, looking somewhat concerned.

“Dirk,” you call, quietly.

He turns, attention shifting to Dave. There is something tired in his face, weary but soft. “Here.” He bends, and picks Dave up. For a moment, you have to stand with him because Dave doesn’t want to let go of you, but Dirk gently extricates him. “I’ll see to him if you’ll…” He nods to the twins’ bedroom.

“Me?” You try to keep the nervousness from your voice. “Do you think that’s wise?”

“Yes,” Dirk says shortly, and steps back into his room with Dave, closing the door.

Well. That’s that decided for you, apparently.

Given Dirk and Rose’s rapport, you’re not sure why Dirk thinks _you’re_ the best to talk to her when she’s upset, but you would be lying if you claimed you were not fond of her and beside yourself with worry after her outburst. The whipcrack words of Rose Lalonde are not new to you, but this was not her incessant and sometimes misguided needling. She hurt Dave, certainly, and you as well, not with carelessness but with malice aforethought.

You spend too much time lingering at the door before tapping your knuckles against it.

There is no response at all, and you wince, and open the door a crack. “Rose? May I come in?”

She’s curled on the corner of her bed, a pillow hugged against her chest, her hair spilling over it as she presses her cheek against the ruffled case. The room is large, to accommodate both of them, and she seems even smaller against its wide emptiness.

Her eyes are red as she looks up at you. But all she does is look away again, closing them.

Cautious as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs, you enter, closing the door silently behind you, and help yourself to the far corner of her bed. “Rose.”

“This conversation is pointless,” she says, liking handing down a conviction. “And I don’t want to have it.”

“I think we should try,” you tell her gently. “That was quite a… thing. In the hallway.”

She tosses you a look, lips quirking, before putting her head back down. “You’d be less out of your depth if you were naked in front of the entire Court.”

It’s true, it’s definitely true. “You were very upset with your brother.”

“Brothers. Plural. But I’m not Dirk’s companion, _you are_ , so that’s your mess to fix. And you will, and I _told_ Dave as much and yet he still has to go and have a tantrum because no one loves him enough right now.” She laughs, horrible and bitter. “What a joke. At least people _like_ Dave, but it’s never enough.”

Your mind skips to a halt at that, focusing. “What? Rose, do you… think people don’t _like_ you?”

She huffs loudly, lifting her head up from her pillow to glare at you. Her cheeks are wet, but her eyes are clear. “I am not like Dave. And I know it. He’s allowed to be-- be childish and to need attention and direction. That’s _fine_. But I have greater responsibilities.” The breath she sucks in sounds painful, filling her lungs before she sets off again, voice quick and entreating. “Did you know the artisans made Dirk a new crown? It was supposed to be emblematic of the new age or whatever. They presented it to him when he was coronated. I laid eyes on it and I _knew_ that someday I would be the one to wear it.” Her mouth twists, and she heaves another breath with staggering strength to calm herself. “Do you know what…” She breaks off, laughing almost hysterically.

You get up and move to sit at the head of the bed. “Rose, dearheart--”

“Why are _you_ here,” she asks, bright as a blade, “when you will never know what I’m talking about? You will never be king. I know it with the same certainty that I will be queen. You can’t _possibly_ understand!”

You don’t think she’s aware that she’s crying. With Dave, the act contorts his entire face into something that hurts to see. With her, tears blink out of her eyes, down her cheeks unheeded as she forces her voice to stay steady.

“Dave gets to be a child,” she says, wavering but stern. “But I know I must be ready to sit upon the Derse throne.”

You have a dozen useless platitudes on the tip of your tongue, ready to pour over a crying child. And Rose _is_ a crying child. But so much more besides. Instead, you swallow them down and _think_ for a moment, letting it all sink in.

Then, you scoot closer to her, brace your arm around her back, relieved at how she instinctively leans into your side. “May I ask you something, Rose?”

“What,” she says flatly.

“Is Dirk going to die soon?”

Her arms around her pillow clench tightly and her head whips up. “What?”

“Or otherwise be forced off the throne?”

“No! I mean…” Her gaze slips away from you, to something very far off. “Not that I have seen, no.”

“Then why are you preparing now?”

She juts out her lip. “Because I have to--”

You take a chance and pull her in, arms closing around her. She fusses for just a moment before twisting and shifting to sit across your lap. The pillow falls forgotten immediately and her hands clench in your shirt. You curl a hand around the curve of her head, bringing her down to rest under your chin.

“I think,” you say, carefully, “you are being very silly.”

“What?” She looks up at your chin. Not offended, but confused. Perhaps you do know Rose well enough for this. Dirk saw it before you.

“Princess, you are _eleven_ ,” you tell her in a whisper. “In Derse, you cannot even take the throne for nine more years, and I very much doubt Dirk will be counting down the days until he can foist it off on you.”

“But I have to be ready.”

“Not tomorrow. Not even the next day.” You brush her hair back from her eyes. “Not the next _year_.”

“You don’t _understand_ ,” she starts haltingly.

“I watched my cousin be groomed for the throne from the day she turned fifteen and onward.” You breathe against the top of her head, shutting your eyes and squeezing her tightly. “I know it’s scary. And your visions treat you so unfairly sometimes, Rose, but you are not just a girl destined to be a queen. You’re still you. Your life is still yours.”

In the circle of your arms, you hear her hitched breath and her face pressing against your neck.

“You can still have fun, or cry, or be a brat, or go have a bloody adventure, you aren’t chained to that blasted chair.” You tap your finger against her temple for emphasis. “ _That_ is your brother’s job. It’s Dirk’s damn weight to shoulder. Don’t try to take it from him.”

She doesn’t say anything, just clings and shakes her head silently, miserably as you start to sway from side to side. It’s a soft thing, a rocking motion to lull children, and you feel her tense up to resist it.

You kiss the top of her head, and feel her tears against your shirt. “Not yet, alright?”

She nods, mute, and holds on tight.

By the time she nudges you back, extricating herself from your hold, it’s long gone dark outside the window. With your arm freed, you reach out to light the half-burned candle sitting on her bedside table. It gives Rose time to rub her face and compose herself.

“You want me to apologize to Dave,” she says quietly.

“It… wouldn’t be remiss.”

“He’s…” She sighs loudly. “He’s not _wrong_ though. You and Dirk are being stupid, and you’re not just stupid islands apart from everyone. The rest of us have to deal with it too. Dave’s just more fragile than Roxy or I.”

You hum. You’re not about to talk about _that_ in depth with Rose, especially given how much you’d like Rose to stop trying to take on everyone’s problems like her own little puzzles to solve. “We’ll handle it. But for now, I think… Some kindness to your brother would not be wasted. Though not as much as some kindness to _yourself_ , Princess.”

“Fine.” She rolls her eyes. “You have a perfectly capable precognitive girl at your disposal, but you don’t want her help. No wonder you’re not--” she cuts herself off, clearing her throat. “I think I’ll call for a bath. If I’m to face my petulant sibling, I want to be cleaned up for it.”

You can take the hint. And it’s not often Rose pulls her punches. You lift her, and set her down on the bed, standing. “It’ll be fine, Rose.”

“Of course it will,” she says, clearly humoring you. “Goodnight, Jake. And… thank you. I’ll think about what you said.”

How magnanimous. You slip out of her room with a bemused smile.

 

* * *

 

You do finally return to your wine and book, though far after the fact. The window is open, as you tend to keep it, and a cool breeze rolls in, enough that you prop yourself up with pillows and lay with the covers on your lap. This, the height of summer in Derse. How anyone stands it, you don’t know.

The lightest knock draws your attention through the archway to your sitting room, to the door. You are loathe to get up when you’ve got the pillows _just_ right against you back and under your arms. In lieu of that, you call, “Come in!”

The Prince leans in, his feet planted firmly on the threshold of your quarters. “Jake, may I-- where are you?”

You sit up and wave your hand, drawing his attention. “Here. You’re… allowed to come in, if you like.”

You realize then Dirk has never entered your rooms. Stood outside, yes. Guided you to the door at the end of the day, yes. But his first steps inside are hesitant, and he folds his hands behind his back with careful poise, as if unwilling to so much as disturb the air around him.

He keeps looking around, though. At the small selection of firearms you keep mounted on the wall, your books (most ‘borrowed’ from the castle library), and the remaining Prospitan silks and trinkets that Jane left to you, scattered pieces of gold clashing with the grey stonework and the velvet purple chairs and cushions. It takes a long time for him to look at you, and then he glances away again. You have to bite down a smile at his uncharacteristic bashfulness.

“How was your talk with Dave?” you ask. It’s safe, you think, talking about the twins.

“He was upset. I managed to calm him, but.” Dirk sighs, still staring off at nothing rather than through your archway. It amuses you, quietly, that Dirk is as reluctant to pry through that boundary as you are with his. “Dave is having his nightmares, and he claims Rose is having _her_ headaches. When their ailments align, it’s particularly taxing on them.”

“I’m not surprised to hear it. Rose was… She had a lot on her mind, most of it not befitting someone so young. Did you know she thinks she’ll be queen?”

Dirk nods. “So she says. A lot can change but.”

So he believes it as well. You take a sip of wine, thinking about that.

“Both of them are feeling the strain, then. You know… if this were Prospit, I would suggest a trip.”

Dirk finally looks at you, eyebrows lifting. “A trip? Where?”

“Oh, the _where_ hardly matters. When Jane and I got overwhelmed by things, we often took a month away from the palace to get some fresh air.”

“I had no idea the air here was so stagnant,” Dirk says dryly.

“Don’t be an ass, you know what I mean.”

It brings a hint of a smile to his face, but too soon his mouth bends into a frown. “A month. I can’t be away that long.”

“I could,” you offer. That gets his eyes to flash to yours, narrow and steady. “I mean, I’m… somewhat superfluous outside companionship. And I…” You look down at your hands, gripped around your book. “You told Rose that she was to listen to me as much as you or Roxy. Did you mean that?”

“Yes. You care about them. And in ways that go beyond what I could compel you to.”

“I do.” You smile faintly. “I sometimes think… I never had the temperament to lead, but smaller things? Like the twins, I could handle them, perhaps.”

“You do better than I, most days.” He clears his throat, studiously avoiding your gaze. “The large scope and grand designs, I can control those. You seem adept at… smaller matters.”

“Well, they aren’t quite the same. Running a kingdom’s a bit harder than running a house.”

Dirk smirks. “Different. Not harder.”

You don’t know what to say to that, if he is being kind or if he really believes it. You sidestep the matter, for both your sakes; this is the first conversation you’ve had since what happened, and you don’t want to lose it just yet. “Would you trust me with them, then? I think some time away might help them, clear their heads or at least distract them from their visions.”

“I would,” Dirk says, nodding. “Not right away, but soon. If you’re up for taking them.”

You are not so familiar with the family’s holdings in Derse, but Dirk is, and gives you options. Even if he’s acutely uncomfortable in your room, it’s still nice. Well, it’s plum wonderful after the long absence of him in your life. You wish he’d look at you more, but you make up for it by watching him closely and enjoying quiet conversation.

It occurs to you that you might get as much out of a vacation as the twins. Space and time enough to come back to this with anew. Maybe Dirk will miss you. Maybe summer with thaw him out a little.

Anything would be preferable to all this distance.

 

* * *

 

_We’ll be setting off soon, thankfully. It’s my hope that some time away will help the lot of us relax a bit. The twins certainly need it, given how quick-tempered and wrung out they’ve been as of late. But I need it too. I think this whole stitch with the Prince just needs fresh eyes. It’d better, as I’ve still got no clue how to fix it, and he’s driving me mad. Driving fast, too, as though by stampeding mares, it’s going breakneck speeds out of the borders of rationality and into the uncharted territories beyond._

_Anyway. Derse doesn’t have Grandma’s summery island or anything, but there is a keep due north that might even have some warmer weather. It’s close enough to the Prospit border, I’m tentatively excited. We’ll be there a month, so should you need to reach me, send your next missive there._

 

* * *

 

You’ve always been fond of carriage rides.

Not as much as hiking; making your way on your own two feet is the best there is. But there is something about a nice trip by carriage. The minutiae of the planning and travel is taken from you, left in capable hands. There are sights to see, and time to read or have the sort of conversations that only happen in liminal spaces like these with loved ones.

And you’ve always enjoyed sleeping in a carriage. Jane always mocked you for your ability to sleep _anywhere_ : up a tree in its branches, right on the beach with the tide lapping at your feet, on an out of the way stairwell, curled up in a too-small chair. Times like these, it’s a damned useful talent, as you prop yourself up on your side of the carriage and sleep, letting the steady rocking of its movement lull you, the sound of night bugs chirping outside a pleasant lullabye. In truth, you doze off before the twins, and appreciate the way they lower their voices as they play cards deeper into the night.

Later, when you wake up, they are fast asleep, each curled up on half of their side of the carriage bench, the wide cushions offering plenty of room for their slumber. There are cards strewn over the floor and table, but the lamp is dim, and the dark is thick even through the curtained window.

You sit up slowly, wondering what roused you so soon.

The carriage has stopped. You are unsure why.

Sitting up, you rub your face and pull the curtains over one of the windows aside to peer out. There is a flickering orange light, the only thing visible this moonless night.

Perhaps the horses needed a rest, or the help wanted to camp. You don’t mind, but wish they’d said.

You’re still looking blurrily out into the night when you see a glimmering flash and hear a shot go off.

Suddenly, you are wide awake, your heart racing so quickly your head spins. You press your face closer to the glass and see the lengthy shadows of people walking around. It’s hard to see through the dark night, but there are many more shapes than your little party. Far more than you were sent out with.

You look back at the children, and find them laying still, the wet gleam of their eyes just visible through the dark. Rose has her knuckles pressed to her temple, her breathing sharp and funny.

“Rose,” Dave whispers, looking at her.

“I don’t know,” she says fiercely. “It’s… too much, there’s _so_ much, it hurts.”

“Stay here,” you tell them, and shut the window, sliding to the other side of the carriage. From there, you see no one. Good. Taking your time and trying to prevent anything from creaking on its hinges, you open the door, just enough to fit your body, and slip out.

Outside, you can hear the muffled noise of talking, and then another gunshot that makes your entire body tense. There’s no scream yet. Either someone is firing warning shots, or they are being aimed… dreadfully well.

Your things are packed in the boot of the carriage, and you sneak that way, bent low.

Inside your head feels eerily silent. Still like the castle lake. There’s danger. The children are here. Dirk entrusted them to you.

If anyone goes near them, you’ll make it the last thing they do.

You are trying to unearth your rifle from the luggage when a troll turns the corner and finds you, their huge glossy horns poking out from the hood they’re wearing, asymmetric with one horn badly broken and the other full intact. They have green eyes, and a long glaive in their hand. It swings up to rest an inch from your throat. “Lookin’ for something?”

Your face contorts into a snarl. “Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with?”

The troll rolls their eyes and jerks the glaive, urging you to move. Out, into the firelight, where you can now see your guards and carriage handlers bound and gagged.

Another troll looks at you with rich blue eyes and says something in their harsh, alien language.

The one holding you at blade’s end grunts. “Don’t need the rest, just kill ‘em.”

Blue Eyes advances, a rifle in their hand. Your attention narrows, focuses on it, taking in the lazy, smug grip the troll has on it. Not treating it with respect. Not paying attention, so sure of themselves.

You break into a sprint and tackle the bastard to the ground, taking them off-guard and directly into the goddamn dirt. They curse and spit in their hard, hissing language, but you have the upper hand and you are _good_ at wrestling, at close quarters.

You make a game attempt to knock their goddamn pointy teeth out of their gash of a mouth. They move with the blow, unfazed, and drag red streaks down your arms with their claws. Hissing, you shove your knee down with all your weight between their legs.

That makes them howl in agony, letting go of you to curl up. Apparently some things are universal across species.

You grab the rifle and throw yourself sideways, away from the other trolls, rolling a distance before swinging the rifle up, braced and trained on the troll closest to you.

Around you, they all start screeching at each other in that damned awful language of theirs. It makes your ears hurt, but you keep your sights moving between them. “Don’t bloody try it or I’ll separate your head from your shoulders!” you snap. “Back _off_.”

One of the blighters decides to test you, and you shoot him in the kneecap, sending him screaming to the floor. In the commotion, you roll up, plant one foot and jump to your feet, re-aiming.

“That was your only warning. Don’t trifle with me,” you growl, flicking your focus between them, trying to keep them all in sight.

“Not fuckin’ worth it,” one mutters, only to be sharply elbowed by one of their compatriots.

No one moves towards you. A standoff, you assume.

Then, you hear a scream, a very human scream, and your blood runs cold.

You can’t help but turn to look, watch one of the monsters yank Rose out by her arm, so fast she tumbles to the grass. “No, no no, I can’t see, no,” she cries, her hand still pressed hard against her forehead.

You re-aim. “Drop her, _now_!” The panic shoots through you, like a lightning strike. Your bones feel alight, humming with restrained energy ready to go off. If they hurt her, you’ll kill them.

The troll has a knife pressed to Rose’s soft, round face in a flash, and you… lose your mind just a little bit. It all goes red and furious, a tunnel vision that takes you as you stalk forward, finger already pulling the trigger. You only have one more shot in this gun, but if you fell this one, Rose and Dave can at least run. Roxy will find them, you are certain of it. You might not make it back, but you’ll take a few of these barbarians down with you.

You hear a footstep behind you, and turn in time to meet the eyes of the blue eyed troll.

They have such deep blue eyes, like darkest twilight. Deep like the ocean at night, and you lose track of everything but the color. Your fingers go slack, your eyes slide shut, and you’re falling.

Rose screams your name. You’re unconscious before you hit the ground.

 

* * *

 

You don’t know how long you’re out. But you know it’s a long time.

When the darkness fades, awareness creeps back in. With it, you taste salt in the air around you, cleansing your lungs as you inhale deeply.

Ocean air first, then softness surrounding you. You shift, turn your head into the pillow under your head. Ocean air, and clean linen.

You open your eyes, and find your cousin smiling gently down at you.

“Welcome back,” she says.

Around you is unmistakably your room in the Prospit royal palace.

“What happened,” you ask, throat scratchy and sore.

Jane shifts from her chair to sit on your bed, folding her arms around your shoulders and pulling you in. “Welcome home, Jake.”

 

* * *

 

Prospit. Home.

It takes another day for you to get to your feet, and Jane is unable to stay with you. Her duties call her away, though she kisses your cheek before leaving your room, a lighthearted spirit betrayed in her gliding steps.

Everything feels strangely unchanged. As if you have fallen backward through time. Outside, Prospit’s golden fields sprawl with straw hat workers walking through the crops, high at this time of year. The ocean sparkles with sunlight jumping from the waves. Colored banners wave in the breeze, vibrant.

The sun is so bright, it makes your eyes water, and you pull the curtains halfway.

The only difference, the only sign that time has passed is the delicate tiara resting on Jane’s head. Your Queen.

She wears it everywhere, it seems. The mark of a new ruler stepping into her position.

“What _happened_?” You chase her down in the royal quarters. She’s moved in there, and sits behind the ornate carved desk of the sovereign, surrounded by parchment and information and proposals. A map of Prospit sits out on the an adjacent table; a bright blue string is meticulously curled across the surface, delineating the shifting borders. Ever closer back to the original shape.

You trace the string separating Prospit from Derse. It catches on your nail, nudging out of place. You push it back.

“I’m sorry it took so long,” Jane says. She rests her elbows on the desk, hands clasping together, knuckles tapping against her chin as she watches you. “So many things had to come together first.”

“Where are the children?” you ask, because not knowing is starting to become a physical pain. The image of Rose in the grips of a troll won’t shake from your mind.

“The prince and princess? They’re safe. By now, returned to Derse.”

You let out a breath it feels like you’ve been holding for the last _day_. “Jane, please, I don’t understand what’s happened. There were-- we were attacked, and then I think one of the damned things knocked me out--"

Jane nods. “That’s what it was supposed to look like. Good.”

You turn to look at her, frowning. “Supposed to?”

“Our relationship with Derse has always been a delicate situation. And for too long, they’ve held the upper hand. As Queen, I’m empowered to do something about that.” She holds out a hand to you. “With your help.”

“Mine?”

Nodding, Jane leans back in her chair and pulls open a drawer. From within she retrieves a thick stack of parchment, lays it down. You step closer and see your own handwriting, your letters. “I’ve kept every one.” Her gaze falls to the top sheet, and her beatific smile fades into sadness. “Oh, Jake. I’m so sorry.”

“For what? Jane, could you just come out and say what you mean?”

She stands, picking up a letter and casting her eyes over the lines. “Do you know, for a while, I… thought you might…” She lets out a tense sigh. “Might be _adjusting_ to life with them, but then.” Her eyes lift to you, clouds over the blue sky of her irises. “What did he do?”

You take the letter from her, skimming it. You recognize it, the one you sent after your disastrous sparring match with Dirk. Rereading it makes something in your chest clench. “He… It was me, I…”

The Queen watches you, solemnly, disbelieving.

“It’s alright, Jake. You’re safe now.”

You were safe _before_. Taking the letter out of her hands, you fold it up, hold it to your chest. “Whatever you’re thinking, Jane, you’ve got the wrong idea. I-- did you.” Ice takes hold of your heart. “Did you have me _abducted_?”

“What I did,” Jane says, “was seize an opportunity, and took you home where you belonged. Your letters made it clear that Derse and Alternia were coming together, and we cannot have that happen. A united Dersian and Troll front, just as we’re getting back onto our feet? Would destroy us.”

“Yes, but that didn’t _happen_ ,” you remind her. “Dirk said no, he was never going to--”

“This time he said no. But he let them _leave_. The Prince of Derse is at war with the Alternians, had their leader in his reach, and loosened his grip.” Jane waves a hand sharply to the map of Prospit. “Out of incompetence? I remember that man and his mind well enough, I doubt it. So, as a show of trust? To further an alliance?”

“No, Jane, you don’t…” You sit heavily in one of the chairs. “Oh, Jane, what’ve you done?”

“I found a wedge.” She lifts her chin at you. “Trolls attempting to kidnap the royal family should put out any kindling relationship there.”

You can only stare at her, mouth parted.

“They are fine. There _happened_ to be a Prospitan-Dersian regiment making camp nearby. Everyone made it out back home fine.”

“Then why am I _here_?”

Jane leans back like you’ve slapped her. “Because I could finally bring you _back_.”

Everything clicks together. You’ve played enough games against Rose by now that the sensation is familiar to you, the moment when you see her plan a second before it happens and you understand just how outplayed you’ve been.

“They think I’m dead,” you whisper.

Jane nods, and places her hand on your shoulder. “I can’t imagine your journey was easy, but we had to be discrete to get you here. To make them think you didn’t survive.”

Rose watched a troll take you down, and thinks you’re dead. Dave, curled up and hiding in the carriage on your order, now thinks you’re dead.

The Prince thinks you’re dead.

Your hands shake as you dig them into your hair. As soon as the thought hits you, everything else stops.

Dirk thinks you’re dead.

Jane takes one of your hands eventually and presses a handkerchief against your palm. You realize you’re crying, and rub your face. “It’s alright. You’re home. I never should have left you, Jake, but you’re here now.”

“You have to send me back,” you tell her.

The gentle smile on her face freezes, chips at the edges. “What?”

Rising slowly, you brace yourself on the chair until you can grab her shoulders, bending to look into her eyes. “You _have_ to send me back to Derse. Or let them know I’m here-- or _something_. They think I’m _gone_ , I-- I can’t-- _the twins_ , oh merciful sunrise, they…”

Jane’s smile vanishes, and she takes a long step back from you. Your hands fall back to your sides.

“You were losing your mind,” Jane tells you. “You didn’t know where you stood. You felt like a fever had taken you. You missed _home_.” A year ago, her voice would shake. Now it’s steady as stone.

Your letters. You’d always promised to write, but what you wrote wasn’t everything. You couldn’t tell your cousin… about late night tea or quiet games or the way you were so desperate to touch him, what _truly_ drove you out of your head. It wasn’t appropriate. She didn’t need to know.

“That’s…” What were you supposed to say?

Jane nods briskly. “This is very sudden, and you’ve been the… companion of the Prince a very long time.” The way she says it makes you flinch. You’re not sure why, don’t _want_ to consider why. “It’ll take time for you to remember. But it’ll be alright. We’ll take care of you and keep you safe. Like I should’ve done all this time.”

“Please,” you tell her. “I need to go back. This… isn’t right.”

The worst, the part that makes your heart sink, is Jane’s dismissive nod. “No. But we’ll make it right. I will.” She circles around her desk and takes her seat, readily pulling a sheaf of papers closer. “I’ll see you at supper.”

You’re being dismissed.

You leave, silent and reeling.

 

* * *

 

The clothes in your wardrobe still fit. Deep down, you think they shouldn’t. It’s not right. You can feel the ways you’ve changed over the past nine months like something new and strange emerging, but your damned yellow vestments is still tailored perfectly to stretch your shoulders and hang just right at your hips. You don’t know where your clothes from Derse are. Probably gone in a permanent sense.

It takes ten minutes to reach the ocean from your bedroom on a good day. Seven if you rush.

You take a winding path through the palace halls, walking across the wall that separates your home from the surrounding town, and pull off your shoes before reaching the sand and approaching the ocean. It takes a good deal longer than ten minutes.

The great flame burns up in the lighthouse near the harbor, but otherwise it’s dark, the slim slash of crescent moon in the sky doing little to cut through the night. When you stare out at the horizon, the dark line where ocean meets sky seems to be shifting, the borders mutable and changing the more you try to find them.

Out there, beyond your sight, is an island. You vacationed there several times when you were small, when your grandmother was Queen. It was an emerald jewel on the water, so lush, the local flora had to be hacked away from the royal settlement every week. You’d loved it, how your grandmother had held your hand and led you through the jungle, showed you the preserve of rare flowers and trees, the seeping glowing lava that sleepily trickled down into the water, the old temples.

You haven’t been there since she died. But Jane says it’ll be a safe place for you. Derse has eyes everywhere, they say (and you know it’s veracity more than most), but they are not sailors and admirals.

A quiet island. A quiet life as thanks for your service to Prospit’s future.

The waves lap at your feet as the tide rolls in. You stand still, and let yourself sink deeper into the shore as the water stirs the sand around you. Rooting you in place, here with the palace at your back and Derse so far from sight.

The water is cool enough to numb. There are no great beasts living in it. It feels empty and apathetic around you.

Everything in you aches in time with your heart, like your pulse is forcing a slow toxin through your veins. Perhaps Jane is right and it’s something Dersian, a chunk of silver ice that Prospit’s warmth is finally melting.

But maybe it’s not.

You wrap your arms around yourself, and stand there as the moon sweeps through the sky. By the time you decide to return to the palace, you’re more than ankle deep in the sand, and your muscles are tight as you pull yourself free.

 

* * *

 

You only go out at night. Jane says it’s imperative to keep your existence a secret until it’s safe to have you moved. When its time, a royal skip will break from the blockade to the northeast and return to take you out to the island. But things need to settle first.

Apparently, things in Derse are bad.

She doesn’t give you any details, and you desperately miss how Dirk always let you into the war room or ensured a messenger briefed you on a weekly basis about Prospit. Now, Jane shoos you away with a kind smile, and closes the doors on you.

She is Queen, and in charge of a kingdom pulling itself back to its feet. You see her at supper every day, but sporadically otherwise. All your preparations to be her right hand are unacknowledged.

It stings, the poison settling in your veins and making you bitter.

You know how cold it is to admit, even in the privacy of your own head, but at least in Derse you weren’t alone. Here, Jane steadfastly refuses to share the weight of her responsibilities with you, either out of lack of trust in your abilities (the likely answer) or due to your imminent departure (the one you tell yourself to sleep at night).

Days slip into weeks without your permission and with barely any of your notice. You stare out at the fields to the south and wonder how the twins are doing. Dave would be shaken badly, but would Rose be holding onto her composure? Would Roxy be there to help or would she throw herself into her work again as she tended to do?

And Dirk.

You don’t think about Dirk. You can’t bare to entertain the thought of your Prince, his stony regal mask covering such a capacity for tenderness. Where would it all go without you there to coax it out of him? Did he have anyone he cared for but his own blood and _you_?

You sit in your palace courtyard at the spindly glass and iron table with a pot of honeyed tea, and can’t help but marvel at it all. For so long you wanted to return to your homeland, and now you struggle with yourself to stop thinking of Derse.

You’d told Jane you missed Prospit. Now, as you languish in the place of your birth, you think it wasn’t the place. Maybe it was nostalgia for a time, not a place. A time that’s long passed.

 

* * *

 

In the courtyard, under the shade of your favorite gnarled old tree, you sit, your legs stretched out. The leaves block the sunlight enough to abate the heat of the late summer day.

You’ve long since given up the pretense of reading. The book laying open flat on your chest is an anthology of your favorite stageplays, grand stories with wit and resolution. The idea had been to trick yourself into old feelings of familiarity, but you knew every word by heart and soon the urge to stretch out like a cat in a sunbeam overwhelmed you.

Your head rests back against the trunk and you breathe deep and even, right on the cusp of sleep. Here, your obligations (both broken and not) seem further away.

Maybe you can relearn this. Maybe it’ll be alright.

The unmistakeable sound of a crow’s laughing cry pulls you back to wakefulness.

You blink your eyes open, unsure where the noise came from. You’re _used_ to them, of course, but they are still such loud, berating pests, just clever enough to be _exceptionally_ annoying.

But not in Prospit.

You snap to awareness and scan around you.

You don’t need to. Another sharp cry sounds from somewhere, and a crow lands right on your knee, close enough you shrink back against the tree, tensing.

It stares at you, and you stare back.

The bird cries into your face once, and flies off into the air, up, up into the blue sky, and out of sight.

For a moment, you watch it go, stunned and weirdly comforted by a glimpse of Derse visiting you here in the Sunburst Court. Even if it’s one of the feathery bastards.

Then the implications hit you like the kickback of a rifle right in your gut. Oh, _no_.

 

* * *

 

There is no point or purpose to keeping your head down anymore. You run through the halls of the palace and through the doors of the war room.

Your existence is not exactly readily available information by necessity, and several people in the room startle as you enter, gasping at the presence of the missing heir.

Jane’s eyes lift to yours, piercing. “Jake.”

“Everyone out,” you say, a thread of steel in your voice. “Now, all of you.”

You may be superfluous, but you are still a prince of Prospit, and people jump to your command on the vanishingly rare occasions you deign to give it.

It feels strange and heavy on you but there is no _time_.

As soon as the room is vacated and it’s just you and Jane, her calm mask breaks. “Don’t _ever_ do that again, Jake; what were you thinking? I can’t have you undermining my authority like that, especially when its so new--”

You stalk forward three long steps, right up to her. “Jane, you need to send me back to Derse, _now_.”

She stops, and lets out a shocked little laugh. “What?”

“Just give me a horse and I’ll go back myself. I have to return, or this is going to become a bally fucking mess _very_ quickly.”

“What has you so spooked?” She puts her hand on your elbow carefully. “Jake, calm yourself.”

“I think they are going to learn the truth very soon, and when they do, I…” God, what the Prince will do. You can’t even think about it, can’t imagine, it’s like looking directly at the sun, it’s too much.

“They are-- Jake.” She squeezes your arm a little. “Your ship will be here soon. They’ll see you away, well out of Derse’s sight and reach. If they send anyone here, we will persuade them to leave, assured that we too busy grieving to keep them. This will be over soon.”

“I don’t think it will be,” you tell her. “I saw a crow, Jane--”

She disengages just like that, letting go of you and turning back to the map ahead of her, punctuated with little flags, purple, yellow, and grey.

You reach out and grab her wrist. “ _Jane_!”

Her hand snaps back, close enough to your face you take an instinctive step back. “Let me explain something to you, Jake,” she says curtly. “I have hired Alternian thugs to attack the royal family of a very powerful military nation that currently walks freely in our borders. I have fabricated the death of my ambassador. I have incited conflict between two _very_ dangerous nations.” Her eyes lift to yours, piercing and clear. “I know I never should have left you in Derse, and I _will_ do right by you, repay you for your hardships. You are my last surviving family, and I love you dearly. But.”

She draws herself up, nowhere near your height but somehow grander in stature than you could ever dream of being. “I am not simply your cousin, I am your _Queen_ , and this is not _just_ about you. We need this to work. We need to save Prospit from the combined forces of our rivals, and I… I wish with all my heart you were not a pawn in this, that I had not treated you like a token to be sold off, but this is the reality we live in. And I have the kingdom and our future to plan for.”

A silence like you’ve never felt before fills you like smoke in a glass.

She watches your face for a long moment, and shuts her eyes slowly, nodding once. “If they come to look for you, we will turn them away. And you will go to the island. You’ll be cared for, and perhaps someday, when we no longer have to live in the dreadful shadow cast by the Prince and the Empress, I would have you at my side. But until then, you will do as I say.” She opens her eyes again. “You said for Prospit, you’d be anything.”

The chasm of distance that you’ve been haunted by opens its great maw, and you hear what must be your own blood rushing in your ears, but it sounds like falling. Further and further away.

You were never made to rule, but you had hoped for more than this.

“Your Majesty,” you say softly, and bow your head.

Jane blinks sharply, and turns from you. Her ears are red, but her voice is as level as ever as she sends you away.

 

* * *

 

The next day, nothing.

The next, word that the ship that will convey you across the sea will arrive in a week.

The next, a young girl in muddied boots and a rough appearance stands in the glittering throne room before the immaculate queen and says, “Crossing the border to the south, Your Radiance, comes a legion from Derse, and their Prince rides with them.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YEAH ONE MORE PART, look. look. this is literally how it works: if the GDoc I'm writing the fic in starts lagging, I find a break point and I make another chapter. because i ain't got time for that shit.
> 
> btw you can find me on tumblr as callmearcturus. shout out to the fucking INCREDIBLE art i've seen inspired by this fic, goddamn. if anyone else posts more, feel free to tag me for that, damn son.


	5. take a body anywhere

It’s for your own protection that Jane urges you to stay in the royal quarters.

And you sit and keep your peace for days, worn like a stone on a sea, every hard edge and word smoothed away by the hopelessness. The apathy twists around you, and you slip into the dim, dark place in your head. It loops its biting ropes around you, slows you down, makes you tired and prone to sleep. This keeps happening; you are beginning to suspect you have a problem, but you have no one to tell. Just your ornate walls and open windows.

Then, you wake one morning and look out the window.

Out, beyond the wall, the wheat fields are crushed beneath a sprawling cluster of tents, violet cloth arched and stretched between tall metal poles topped with the winged emblem of the south. It’s as though a mirage has been banished, and revealed Derse lying in wait under the illusion.

The Derse legion is here. _Dirk_ is here.

All of the lethargy that wrapped around you like iron chain and shackle turns to rust and crumbles as you throw off the covers. You need to be dressed, you need to see him. You don’t _care_ about anything else, just the knowledge that your Prince is here.

Even dressing as hurriedly as you can takes too long. Another look out the window reveals a Derse procession sweeping up the main road, rich purple wine in the golden goblet of your city. In your rush, you forgo the extra stately accessories and symbols of your status, the emblems you strictly speaking should wear to the throne room. To hell with them. You shove your feet into simple slippers and race down the hallway.

Jane did not just compel you to keep to your room. At the stairwell separating you from the body of the palace, two guards stand, hands resting on their sword hilts.

The taller one looks at you, her eyes only just visible through her helm. “Your Grace,” she says grimly, as if she’d hoped not to cross your path at all. “Her Majesty Queen Crocker would have you wait in your rooms.”

The idea is laughable. “That is not going to happen,” you tell her.

Both guards look at each other briefly and shift their feet. The same one speaks: “We have to insist, Your Grace, as there is danger and her Majesty would see you protected.”

“If you want me back in my rooms, you will have to carry me,” you reply coldly, fists clenching. “Are you so devoid of loyalty you would raise a hand to your prince?”

She doesn’t respond. But they both do not budge from their spots.

Your lip curls, a rare bit of regal indignation taking you. You are prince of this land, and simple palace guards will not answer your command.

It’s not their fault, you know. An order from the Queen is not easily set aside.

But you are determined, and Jane should’ve known you better.

From your room, you can make it to the beach in ten minutes… or seven.

You return to it, and shut your door firmly, crossing quickly to the window. With a flip of a latch, it swings open. So many days you spent with it wide open, letting the breeze in while you lazed around your room. Then you had a curfew to abide to, and learned how to dodge it.

You are a little too old for climbing out your bedroom window, but desperate times and desperate measures. If someone would like to prevent you seeing whatever meeting is in store for your cousin, you’d welcome them to catch you.

You’re surefooted along the sloped roof of the palace, walking to the edge and carefully dropping down to a level below. Here, you’ve passed the guards, and hurry to find another largeish window to avail yourself to. It wouldn’t do for someone to look up and spot you traipsing along.

You climb into a guest room, empty, and hurry along to the throne room.

Where the Derse throne room is a long room with an extravagant number of hanging standards and no room for spectators, the Prospitan throne room is wide and inviting. Split into two levels, the ground level is reserved for titled nobility and close allies. Around the circumference of the round chamber is a balcony. And from your entry back into the palace, the balcony is closest to you.

There are no doors up here, only archways, so your dramatic entrance goes unheeded. No one looks at you. The courtiers (and several servants who cannot withstand the force of their curiosity) stand against the railing to see what’s going on below.

You push your way to the front, only resting when you have both hands on the smooth marble of the barrier and a clear view of the throne room.

Your voice catches in your throat.

The Queen sits upon her golden throne, her gown spilling cerulean and gold, down in a cascade. With the tall windows surrounding her, she gleams in the light, and for the first time your Janey looks like a ruler, her head steady and lifted against the bulk of the Prospitan crown with its high points and mirrored suns.

Twenty feet away, standing before a regiment of uniformed Dersian soldiers, stands the Prince of Derse. The daily finery of his that you’ve grown so used to is missing. In its place is a severe military attire, its form closely fitted to his body, midnight violet with silver epaulettes and buttons, a long hanging cloak swishing silently against his boots and the carpeted floor. Upon his head there is no crown, but a helmet, obscuring his face with metalwork, the impression of a sharp beak and splayed feathers highlighting the angles of his face.

With his sword drawn, staring down your Queen, he doesn’t look much like your Prince at all.

“Treason is a powerful word, Prince Strider,” Jane says, voice carrying without volume, as though the entire room bends its ear to hear her.

“It’s a powerful crime against a sworn ally,” Dirk says, flat and inhospitable as a salt plain.

“And how does the _alleged_ crime justify your invasion. You march upon my city for what? The hearsay of black magic and bird squawks?”

“You came to me in the harvest, starving and in need of assistance. I gave it, and for my mercy you’ve dragged your nation back to its feet only to repay me with theft and violence against my heirs?” Even from afar you can see the pale fire of his eyes. “I’ve crushed people for lesser acts.”

Jane leans forward. “I don’t know the theft you speak of, and yet you come to me while my kingdom mourns the last of the English name, lost while in _your_ care--”

“You maintain that the Prince is dead?” Dirk snaps back, cutting her off, drawing a gasp from everyone.

Jane breathes deeply, furious at the affront, eyes flashing. “My own cousin--”

He does it _again_. “Yet lives in these halls, Your Majesty; I did not ride up to your useless fallow kingdom on a _guess_.”

This is getting out of hand, and you can’t bear to stand by. You shove two raptly watching courtiers out of your way in your haste to reach the stairs. One turns to see who’s so rudely shoved him, and lays eyes on you. Awareness dawns, and he lets out a wordless gasp, pointing.

It draws more eyes. You ignore them and put your hand on the stone bannister, keeping your eyes on your feet as you descend into the throne room proper.

There is white noise all around, cresting, rising in volume as more eyes inevitably follow the movement in the room and find _you_.

Steeling yourself, you step out, and look up at the Prince and Queen.

Jane has gone ashen pale, her lips pressed into a white line. You can’t help but admire her poise; otherwise, she’s still, giving nothing away.

Even so, you know that… there is something incandescent and furious just behind her eyes.

You probably deserve that.

And Dirk.

The Prince of Derse stares at you, still as a statue and unblinking for a long, agonizing moment.

Then, in one movement, his head snaps back to fix upon Jane. You feel it like a fish hook brutally yanked from your chest.

“What say you _now_ , Radiant Queen of the Sunburst Throne?” The quiet is deafening, like a physical pressure wrapping around your ribs and _squeezing_. He takes one step forward, head bending almost like a bird’s, a mockery of curiosity. “What stories do you have for me now?”

“Your Highness--” you begin.

“Be _silent_ , Jake.” Jane’s voice hits you like a whipcrack, and you freeze, lips still parted.

The Prince… smiles. It’s not a kind thing to see, no gentle curve of his mouth. It’s angry. It’s angry like you have never seen before.

“If the Queen has nothing to say and has her Prince leashed, then I humbly offer my own words. I only hope they are adequate to repay what I have been shown.” The Prince lifts his blade, pointing it at Jane. “I declare the kingdom of Prospit a kingdom of snakes who bite the hand that protects them. You came to my court, Jane Crocker, and asked for aid, and I gave it. And this is how I am repaid.”

Jane stands, and if the silence could go hushed, it would. “You are so quick to damn us. With one hand you offer salvation and with the other, you embrace the very nation that seeks to burn us out. We are not some songbird that will be caged within your cold talons and the Empress’ claws. Your charity is unwelcome when it comes at the price of our freedom.”

“My aid was not an act of charity, Queen, but as part of a deal. One you have broken.”

For just a second, Dirk’s eyes cut to yours, and hold.

The chasm stretches.

The Prince looks down the line of his sword like a rifle. “Here is the new deal, Your Radiance. I demand your crown. If it falls to me to save your kingdom from your treacherous heart, so be it.”

The quiet of the room shatters like glass as it erupts with gasps and shocked exclamation, horror and fear in the eyes aimed at the Prince. A few people you see hurry out through the side doors. The royal guards flanking step forward in anticipation, putting themselves between Jane and Dirk.

This was never supposed to happen.

He sheathes his sword. “Prepare for surrender or prepare for war. I’ll see to your answer in the morning.” His cloak swings with him as he pivots on one heel and stalks down the room, his soldiers parting like water and closing again behind him as he takes his leave.

It takes everything you have not to fall to despair right then and there.

 

* * *

 

In the wake of Derse’s ultimatum, Jane points one finger at you, and says, “Bring him.”

You find that your royal blood does not protect you from being manhandled. You are not a slight man at all, but your feet leave the floor as you are escorted bodily to the private chamber behind the throne room.

Then you are alone, and Jane turns to you. “What have you _done_?”

All the rage you saw just beyond her regal mask begins to spill, making a shuddering mess of her voice as she struggles to keep it together. Her hands clench the air in front of her, and she breathes in sharply like a wounded thing.

“Jake, do you have _any_ idea--” Her hand whips up, swiping under her spectacles. The painted gloss around her eyelid smudges. “You don’t. You couldn’t possibly. You have never had the weight of two hundred thousand souls depending on you. You have never worn this crown, you were never going to sit there while a Prince with his army sitting a mile away accuses you of treason. It was _never_ going to be you, and you--”

Her voice breaks, and her hand covers her eyes.

“I never meant,” you start. You wrap your arms around yourself. You want to wrap them around _her_ , you can’t bear this. The gravity of the situation is settling on you like a iron mantle. You had been so eager to see Dirk. You _had_ to, it was barely a choice but a compulsion, to lay eyes on him again.

You scarcely recognized him.

Jane shakes her head. “Why? Why would you-- What is all this madness _for?_ Is… that what it is? Did Derse truly drive you mad?” Her eyes are watery as she inhales a tremulous breath and looks you over, assessing. “I need to understand, Jake, where this sabotage came from.”

You hug yourself tighter. “I-- I never… You brought me back here, and I never asked for that, Janey, I told you I was fine with the treaty--”

She waves a finger in the air. “What you told me. What _you_ told _me_ was several letters worth of misery, Jake. You told me you would do this for Prospit, and yet every third letter you filled with stories of how the Prince toyed with you and how depressed you were. _That_ is what you told me.”

“I never meant for you to-- I needed someone to talk to, and I thought that was you!” You feel your own sorrow in your face, the clenching in your throat. “I never asked for this!”

“You never asked for _anything!_ Our entire lives, you never learned to ask, to give voice to your actual desires, to tell anyone what _you_ wanted!” She sucks in a breath, shoulders shaking. “It has _always_ been this way, and when you said were afraid you were losing your mind, I-- I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t sentence you to that, my own blood, my only family left in this world.” She sniffs loudly, inelegant, and draws a cloth out from her pocket to clean her spectacles with jerky motions. “I only wanted you to be happy.”

You sink into the nearest chair, head spinning.

When life in Derse was hard, you only told Jane. Dirk was out of the question given how often it’d been all caught up in him. The twins were too young. And as much as you liked Roxy, she was the spymaster of Derse, and you were never sure if your confidence would stay with her. So, it was easy to pour it all out onto the letters and ship them off to Prospit. It made you feel better, like siphoning off a toxin in your blood and feeling lighter for it.

Sent it all off to Jane, who kept every letter. Who poured over them. Who hatched a plan to save you, and keep Prospit safe in the meanwhile.

You put your face in your hands. “I was.”

“What?”

The first hitch of a sob tries to claw out of your chest. You try to strangle it back down. “I _was_ , Jane. But I never said that, did I?”

You lift your face and see your cousin staring at you in shock and confusion.

She’s right. She’s right, you never knew how to ask.

She had only wanted to help you. Or, Jane wanted plenty of things, but she was Queen. _Your_ Queen, and you just. Just.

“I’m sorry,” you manage through the sick feeling seizing you. “Jane, I’m so sorry. I didn’t… write everything into my letters. I never imagined you would do this.”

“I sent for you before,” Jane says. “You wrote back. You said staying in Derse was your duty to Prospit.”

“Things changed. I-- I maybe changed.” You rub your face. “I never said. I’m so sorry.”

“Have you-- I still don’t understand, Jake. Why you did this.”

Because you didn’t want to hurt him. Didn’t want him to hurt anymore. You shake your head, lean hunched forward under the weight of everything that’s spun out of control.

“They didn’t deserve this,” you whisper.

“Well.” Her voice is clipped, shot through with an iciness that has never before shown its face in Prospit. “I dread to think what you feel my people deserve.”

Not this, either.

You stand gingerly, and tug your tunic down, straightening it. The finely woven cloth and lambswool feels strange after so long. Nostalgic. That, you’ve decided, is definitely the word.

“I’ll go to him,” you tell Jane, taking her hand in yours. “I’ll convince him to stand down. To leave.”

She looks at your hands, clasped together, then at your face. You try to smile reassuringly. “How?”

With a simple truth: The Prince of Derse will forgive you anything.

“I’m your ambassador, Jane,” you say, rubbing your thumb over the back of her hand. “I’ll fix this.”

She holds your gaze for a moment, and the distrust there burns you, enough you think it’ll scar something in your heart. Eventually, she nods, and removes her hand from yours.

You go, and swallow down the urge to cry. You have a duty to Prospit to fulfill.

 

* * *

 

You take the time to return to your rooms. There is not much in your closet that is not dyed in the golden yellow of Prospit, but you manage to find _something_ ; dark trousers and a green shirt Jane always said brought out your eyes. A hooded cloak pulled over it all shields your status from wandering eyes familiar with your face. It’s the same ensemble you often used to sneak out of the palace to walk the city incognito.

Now, you lace up your best boots and trudge out amid the fireflies and cicadas, across the half-trampled muddied field south of the capital, to the small town of Dersian tents set up on your doorstep.

The moon is nearly full tonight, illuminating your path through the broken crops. As you approach, a few Dersian eyes follow you, but you’re not the only Prospitan here. Just off from the camp, merchants have set up makeshift stalls, offering local goods and food to the army, as if they were just tourists in your lands. You pass more than a handful of soldiers smiling amused at the merchants, leaning on their polearms and glaives, rifles casually hooked over their shoulders as they browse for what you assume are souvenirs.

Prospitans were always peacemakers, not warriors. It’s never embarrassed you before now.

You pass the stalls and keep your head down as you walk through the camp proper. You have… never seen a war camp before. You have never seen so many soldiers before, honestly. It’s chilling to have them making their home so close to the palace. Armorers and horsemasters and quartermasters and archers and riflemen.

Dirk had once said, what feels like a lifetime ago, that armies were made of human lives. It’s different to see it up close.

You’re unsure what exactly you are looking for, but you know it on sight. One tent, smaller than the open air canopies but larger than the troops’ sleeping tents. A guard stands at the door, attentively sweeping their eyes over every face that passes them by.

Eye. Singular. A pallid man with a mean face and one keen eye standing between you and the Prince’s tent.

He sees you, and his lip curls into a snarl. “Well, look what crawled out of the tall grass, huh?”

You sigh, and step closer. “I need to speak to him.”

“That so?” The guard puts a hand over the long knife at his waist. Fairly fondles it, actually. You don’t back away, as much as you want about ten miles from this man.

“I’m the ambassador, am I not?” You spread your arms. “I’m unarmed. I only wish to talk.”

“Maybe he don’t want to talk to you.” The guard bares his teeth. “Might hold a grudge about the kids.”

You flush hot. “You’ve seen them, how are…” You shake yourself. _Not_ the time. “Please.”

The guard lets out a low _tch_ , and stands aside. “I’d tell ya good luck in there, golden boy, but that’d imply I gives a fuck.”

You wince. Right. Keeping your mouth shut, you hurry inside.

Given the brightness of the moonlight outside, it’s dark in the tent, and your eyes need a moment to adjust to the sparse candles illuminating. But it’s sparse here. A bed against the far wall, a plain set of chests, a rack of swords.

A war table. You swallow against the lump in your throat and step towards it. Chess pieces litter the surface. Precisely placed white pieces scattered around the borders of Prospit as well as a good deal more black pieces.

The black queen looms inches from the white king, surrounded in black pawns and knights.

You spot the white knight, the pretty polished horse token, at the white king’s side. Your hand shakes as you reach for it.

“Do you disagree with its placement?”

You nearly jump out of your damned skin, jerking away from the table and turning. Wherever he was hiding before, you don’t know, but now the Prince stands before you, tall and serene in an eerie way as he watches you, his helmet tucked under his arm.

“What?” You search his face. The set of his brows, his eyes, the line of his mouth are all so cold.

“Your piece.”

You look back at the table, but it’s not important. Not what’s on your mind. “The twins, how are they? Are they…” You fold your arms over your chest and reach up a hand to push your hood back, off your head. “Oh, they aren’t, I know, but how…”

Dirk keeps watching you. With his face so impassive, it’s like being stared down by a gargoyle, unnerving and uncomfortable. “Unharmed. Recovering slowly. Rose was inconsolable for almost a week. She thought she’d watched you die, and couldn’t understand why she didn’t foresee it. Before we learned you survived, she was having something of a crisis about that. About the other ways her futuresight must be failed her.”

Cold, like a recitation. Your knees go weak regardless, and you put a hand on the table to keep upright. _Rose_. It was so unfair. “And Dave?”

A soft exhale. “What do you think?”

You shut your eyes, take a breath. You’d known, you aren’t an idiot and you know the children well enough by now. But it was different, hearing it.

“Rose is having her headaches,” Dirk continues. “Apparently we’re at a pivot point, and she can see all the possible paths. It’s a bit much for her to handle, especially alone.”

And now Dirk was here. You were here. Not where you’d do her any good.

When you work up the nerve to look, Dirk is still staring at you. In a way, this feels… more real than the last month or so you’d shared with him. Then, with all the strange space, and his distraction, avoidance.

Now, at least he’s not pretending.

“I really just… wanted them to have a nice little vacation. I’m so sorry.”

Dirk blinks. A moue of confusion breaks the blank facade of his face.

 _Oh_. “You think. You think I was in on it.”

“You asked my permission to take them away, and they were attacked,” he points out.

“By Jane’s-- well-intentioned but horrific scheme, yes, I would never…” You turn to face him, searching his face entreatingly. “You think I would hurt them? That I _could?”_

“Once, I thought not.”

“Well, I couldn’t! I-- I would never hurt them, or you, never on--”

“But your Queen would.”

You feel like you need a lie down. Instead, you turn, propping a hip up onto the table, keeping your hands curled over the edge of the heavy wood. You take a deep breath. “It’s not so simple. I-- It was my fault, my mistake. I led her to believe such awful things, and she meant to _rescue_ me.”

“Rescue you,” Dirk repeats dully. “And what did she imagine she was rescuing you _from_?”

You look down at the floor, the thick rug spread over the earth. “I wrote her. I swore I would. But I… oh, Dirk, I didn’t tell her everything, and it all got so tangled up in what she-- she thought I was-- why I was in Derse.” You shake your head. “I told her the times you were driving me up the bloody wall, and when things were hard for me, when I was feeling down, but I never told her… the good things.” The lump in your throat is back. It hurts to swallow around it. “That you were good.”

“Ah,” Dirk says, damningly. “I see.”

“She didn’t know. And that was my fault, I never _dreamed_ she’d do this. She--” You dare to look at him. There’s still so little betrayed on his face. “She’s trying to do what’s best for Prospit.”

“So if she had not taken this path, she would have just taken another. Anything to prevent Derse from casting a shadow of a threat here. How reassuring.”

“Stop that, you-- would you do differently in her shoes?”

“I would never be in her shoes, the question’s moot.”

“Dirk,” you start, sighing.

“I’m not known for my empathy, Jake.” He’s so cold, his clever tongue turned to sharpness. He turns away from you, facing the table, and sets his helmet down on the corner. “Why are you here? To justify your Queen’s betrayal to me? Do you honestly think good intentions matter in this crime?”

You wanted to see him.

Hot shame floods you. You don’t think saying that would go over well right now.

As the quiet stretches mercilessly, though, the thought settles over you. This is it. This is how this mess happened. This is how you’re standing here again, in the presence of a cold foreign prince with Prospit’s future in his hands.

You never say what you mean. And here you are.

Staring at his profile, the elegant angles of him, how his regal uniform cuts him finely, the darkness like deep water in his face, you say, “I wanted to see you.”

Dirk goes utterly still.

You step closer, and place your hand near his on the map.

He stares down at your fingers, and follows them up your arm, to your face. He doesn’t look happy. But some of the anger has slipped from his grip.

Taking a breath, he says, “Do you remember how this started?” Unsure what he means, you wait. “You and your then Princess, come to Derse’s doorstep looking for help from a kingdom you’ve been pitted against for centuries. You told me how sorely outmatched you were. Painted quite the portrait of weakness, really.”

“I remember,” you say, though you don’t know where this is going.

“If I’d followed my head, what I _should_ have done, I would have taken you both into custody and plucked Prospit from you. It would have been quick. A decisive victory and a breadbasket country added to Derse’s strength.”

“But you didn’t,” you remind him softly. “You showed us mercy.”

“I showed _you_ mercy. You adore this useless antiquated kingdom. I can’t imagine why.” He shook his head. “And for _what_.”

His fingers press against the white king, tipping it until only his pressure holds it upright.

You reach out, steady it, coax it back down. “It was a mistake.”

“Are you going to stand here and defend her?”

“I have to!” You don’t mean it to be an exclamation, and you hang your head, face burning. “Do you think I’m not upset? I just-- I don’t like being angry. I’m not _good_ at it, it makes me do such awful things. But by the stars and fucking pillars, Dirk, she went and kidnapped me when all I wanted was a nice sojourn with the twins, and now everything we’ve worked towards-- No, that _I worked for_ has been thrown on the fire.” You suck in a breath, shaking. “I gave up everything to ensure the survival of Prospit knowing I might not ever _see_ it again, and she ruined it, whatever her intentions. And I’m so livid about it, don’t think I’m not, but that-- that doesn’t mean I don’t still love her. And that I love my homeland.” You sigh, and all the fire goes out of you, so acutely you can almost taste the smoke. “I can’t just let you crush it under your heel because this.”

“So you mean to stop me?” Dirk looks askance at you. “Do you have an assassin blade hidden in that cloak?”

“That’s not funny, _stop it_.” You want to grab him and shake him. “You’re not _like this_ , Dirk.”

“It’s what your Queen thinks of me, isn’t it?”

“Staying your hand would prove her wrong.”

“Or I could simply remove her from the board.”

You reach out, grab his sleeve, and watch his eyes pop wide, staring down at your hand, at your face.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “ _Please_.”

He watches you. But for once in his life, he doesn’t pull away from you. For once, he _stays_. And you step closer.

“Hang the treaty. Denounce Jane. Carve a burning swath of countryside on your way back to the south. But don’t do this.” You release his sleeve, place your hand over his heart. The cold silver emblem of the house of Derse bites into your palm, but underneath is the solid heat of him through the shell of his uniform.

His chest moves with a deep breath.

“Go home,” you tell him. Touching his face feels dangerous, like the edges will cut you. But the pads of your fingers find the smooth curve of his cheek. “ _Please_.”

The Prince doesn’t move, but you hear the start of something, the faintest noise in his throat. When you dare to look, his eyes are nearly closed, lashes low over warm amber.

You are through with waiting for someone to inconvenience you with your own desires.

He’s just barely too tall. You rise up on your toes and hold his face between your hands, your fingers sliding into the thick crest of bone white hair. “Forgive this,” you whisper, and press your lips against his. You aren’t sure _what_ you’re asking forgiveness for.

After so long waiting, wishing, wanting, you kiss him.

He doesn’t kiss you back. You lean back, breaking the contact, and his eyes open to find yours, holding them, holding you. “Are you trying to buy my leniency?” His voice is soft, an inquisitive lilt to his words, confusion instead of accusation.

“No,” you admit, and sink back onto your heels, certain your heart is breaking. “I just wanted to do that.”

The Prince does nothing, only his eyes following you, silent as snowfall. Soon, you feel… guilty, and let him go, taking a long step back.

“Right, then.” You pull up your hood, letting the hem shield you. Perhaps you should beg or grovel, or maybe you should say goodbye. Instead, you say, “Thank you, Your Highness,” and slip back out of the tent without another word.

 

* * *

 

 

The halls of Prospit have never been more somber.

There was an inherent exuberance to living in a golden city under a sympathetic sun. You’ve grown up with the tales of this place, its destiny. The walls had to be kept polished and bright so Prospit could be a beacon of light for the world.

It would be more appropriate, you think, if there was a storm overhead, or anything to blot out the sky. A symbol gone dark.

Derse and Prospit, and their eternal dance. You never thought you’d live to see the day one side won. You, perhaps foolishly, never thought it would be Derse. Back when Alternia first began their strikes, the whispered refrains through the kingdom had been the same: This will pass. We are Prospit. Good will not fall to evil.

Simpler times.

No one speaks to you as you return to your room. Gazes are low. Spirits are low.

At least happens like this, you think. If Prospit has to fall, then at least it’s to Dirk and not the Empress. At least it’s him, and he’ll make it quick and as bloodless as possible. He’s a cold man capable of true ruthlessness, but he’s never been needlessly cruel. You trust him that much.

As you pass her door, Jane appears, sending candlelight spilling into the moonlit hallway. “Well?”

You halt there, and look at your cousin haloed in flickering yellow and orange. It is late, and she’s dressed in her sleeping gown. For the first time since you woke up here, her brow is bare of crown or tiara. Just Jane, sweet clever Jane.

All your lingering anger at her, all the hurt, it slips like sand from your fingers.

You’re silent too long. She shuts her eyes and lowers her head. “I see. For a while there, I had hope that we’d make it through this. That I _wasn’t_ the heir of a failed kingdom.”

You don’t bother calling to her as she shuts the door. Just continue on your way back to your room.

A maid fills the bath for you, and you soak there with orange oil and peppermint, astringent and bright against your nose. Lay your head on the rim, cheek pressed cool against the porcelain amid all the hot steam.

Think about the future. Not Prospit’s; yours. If Prospit falls, what will become of you? You can’t imagine Dirk would entertain the idea of killing you and Jane. No need. So, will he… keep you?

The heat and steam have your head filled with the same, and the water barely ripples as you shift, dragging a hand under the water and down, down. He could keep you. He’s not the right Prince, the stonehearted vengeful warrior instead of your regal host with wandering eyes and restrained hands. But it’d be _something_ , and a carnal and desperate thing inside you would take being treasure over being forgotten.

You shudder and sigh, sinking lower in the tub as your head clouds with drowsy warmth. It takes a few minutes for the strength in your legs to return enough for you to climb out.

You dry off as you stare out the window, at the campfires in the distance, and wish it was a different view from your room.

 

* * *

 

Jane calls you to her in the early morning.

You dress in a manner befitting your status, gold chain and silk and buttons, a cloak hanging around your shoulders down to your hips. Your wings of hope are likely still sitting in your cabinet back home, and the servants fasten your cape with an emerald pin in its place. You glance at the mirror and nod.

Not a bad look for someone about to lose everything for the second time in a year.

Jane waits for you in the grand foyer, a strange sight in black bodice and lace over her gold sleeves. She carries the coronation crown on her head, the heavy unwieldy thing that is it with its arches and blue velvet and crystal spires.

You can see in her face, that if she will hand her crown to Dirk, it will be _the_ crown.

She holds out her hand to you, eyes solemn but soft. “Jake. Walk with me.”

“It’d be my honor,” you tell her, and settle her arm through yours, putting your other hand over hers.

She laces your fingers together. “I do love you.”

She says it like a reminder, like you may have forgotten through all this. You know her, your sibling, your cousin, your Queen, that she will never apologize, but she does love you.

“I know.” You forgive her all this, for giving you away, for taking you back. Even if she will never say she’s sorry. She can’t any more with her title in the way. Perhaps if you had been here when she was crowned, it would be different. She would still trust you. You’d be important to her.

On Dirk’s chess board, you were never a king, never a queen. Always a little ivory horse. A knight. For all the good you did protecting anyone on either side of the border.

You and Jane lead the small procession out of the palace. It’s still early, the sun just rising, not yet visible beyond the city wall. The air tastes damp and cool. And despite the hour, Prospitans come out to see you off, standing beside the streets, watching their Queen go by. Word must’ve traveled, even just over the past 12 hours.

You wonder what the word has been. A cold heartless conqueror come to their home. Or a crownless prince who turned his kingdom to ruined flotsam. Or a treasonous queen who betrayed their protectors. Some horrible mix of the lot.

Once, you wanted to be a hero. Once, Jane promised you a grand mural.

Now, you still don’t know what your place in all of this is. Heir unapparent, mistrusted advisor, stolen trinket.

The bearer of your cousin’s arm as you step out into the field, your feet catching morning dew as you go to face your fate.

A line of Derse’s company awaits you. Some riflemen; you hope this is not a firing line. Others sit atop great Dersian steeds, many painted with white chalk, given wings along their sides.

As you come to a stop, facing them, you expect Jane to release your arm, to stand alone as she so often has since taking her place as Queen. But now, when you slacken your grip for just a moment, her nails dig in. You look at her, and see the calm mask of her face painted around eyes glimmering with fear.

You take a half-step closer, and kiss her knuckles.

Your reverie, staring comfort into your Janey’s eyes, is broken by a silver trumpet, a long sustained note cracking the quiet around you. Her fingers tighten again, this time on the verge of painful against your forearm. You loosen her hand to enclose it fully in your own. Her coronet digs in just as tightly as her nails did, but you are both frozen as every violet-clad soldier bows their heads.

The Prince of Derse rides out, a silver winged band gracing his brow, catching in the pale daylight. Quietly and privately, you are stung by the posturing. Leaving Jane standing on the ground while he sits astride a warhorse. Of course he would, having all the power this day, but the urge to stare him down is strong.

“Prince Strider,” Jane says, and you _love_ her, how her voice is steady.

“Your Radiance.”

You hear him dismount, and cannot bear to keep your eyes averted any longer. Dirk approaches, crossing the empty plain of grass between his party and yours. Around you, you see many of your people bow their heads, looking nervous.

You keep your eyes up and on his face.

He doesn’t look at you, drags his eyes up to Jane’s crown, and… quirks the corner of his mouth up, so slightly you think you’ve imagined it once its gone.

“A very ornate symbol for such a day,” he opines, voice almost mocking.

Jane lifts her chin. “You made yourself known, your intentions. If you come for a crown, it should be the correct one.” She lifts her head further, words tempered in fire. The long line of her neck is bare, and her implication is clear. It makes you want to stand between her and Dirk, but that didn’t go so well last time.

“It wouldn’t have to be that way,” The Prince says, even as he rests a hand on the hilt of his sword. “If we’re speaking of symbols, I’d accept you bending a knee, Your Radiance.”

Jane scoffs. “No. That’s far too peaceful for a Dersian reign.”

You want desperately to bodily haul Jane away from Dirk. Does she not know what she’s saying? It’s all so unnecessary and you-- you don’t want to watch your cousin fall. You can’t survive that on top of everything else.

“So you don’t come to beg mercy,” The Prince says, tapping his fingers against the silver pommel under his hand. “But you come ready to lose.”

“You may take my throne, but you will never be a Prospitan king. Everything I have done and will yet do, I do for the Sunburst Throne.” She steps forward one pace. You cling to her arm, unwilling to let go. “If you’ve come for my crown, then take it and be done. The kingdom will live on.”

“Jane, please,” you breathe, unable to hold your tongue any longer. You can’t _bear_ this. You can’t bear bloody anything, but especially not this. If this is courage, you’ll take cowardice any day if it means your Jane isn’t killed by this shadow of the man you cared so deeply for.

Dirk’s head turns, focus suddenly on you. You’re paralyzed by it, staring back, trying to plead without words. _Please_ , in hopes _your_ Prince is still hidden behind the cold countenance of this one.

Two of his fingers tap-tap-tap against his sword as he looks at you.

Then, he looks back to Jane, and at her crown. “Such a weight. They’re supposed to be, we both know. A reminder of what we carry. But I don’t desire to have that one pressed upon me. The responsibility for so many lies, so much ill will, so much darkness. An abundance of gold and long summer months hardly makes you _light_ , Queen.”

Jane lowers her head at last, no longer displaying her neck like she longs for an axe, and frowns. “What are you saying?”

“That I would leave the vipers to their pit.” And he steps back again, voice growing louder. “You scorned mercy, stole what gift you granted, and attempted to sow discord where there should’ve been none. You make peace, but only for yourself, and damn anyone who gets in your way. You _attacked my children_.” He shakes his head. “I want nothing to do with your kingdom, Queen. It’d be a blight on the heart of Derse.”

Jane takes a step, and halts when you refuse to follow, holding her anchored to your side. The stars could go out before you let her chase her doom. “Do you expect to be venerated for your kindness, Prince Strider?”

“Venerate your cousin, dear Queen. Reason’s last bastion in the land of Prospit lies in your ambassador.” He turns. “Derse’s armies shall leave within the fortnight. Should a single soul be harmed by your hands, I will return, and I will cut them off.”

Jane looks to you for just a second, the glance singeing you with its heat. You hold onto her regardless. “I dare not spill Derse blood. It might poison the ground it falls on.”

“ _Jane_ ,” you hiss.

“History will show the true nature of Derse, it’s duplicity and manipulation, I swear it.”

Dirk looks back then, eyebrow lifted. “Whose history?” Shaking his head, he reaches his horse, and climbs up onto the black leather saddle with ease. “We’re finished. Go write your fairy tales.”

Like a fist long-clenched finally released, the soldiers of Derse move. Weapons lowered and stowed, many turn towards the camps. It’ll be dismantled. Derse is leaving. Prospit still stands.

Dirk is leaving.

You watch him pull a pair of black suede gloves from his belt, tugging them onto his hands, his boots tucking absently into the stirrups of the saddle. Dirk is not staying as the war camp is taken down, he’s _leaving_.

His blade through your heart would be kinder.

You take your arm from Jane as she stands there in her righteous fury, and walk forward.

“Jake, what--” Jane’s fingers catch in the sleeve of your shirt.

You pull out of her grasp, and walk faster, sidestepping around Dersian soldiers in your path to reach him.

In Derse, there is little sun and much darkness. There are creatures living in the lake that whisper in your dreams. There is no ocean, no honeycomb, and no bright memories of your childhood. It’s cold and sharp, frostbitten air in your lungs.

But there is love, and hope left forgotten on a glass shelf.

You reach out, and put your hand on Dirk’s knee, pulling his attention away from his reins and down to your face. He is still, but for his eyes, wide and bright and molten gold.

You see more of home in those strange eyes than in the palace behind you. And you are through with nostalgia.

Your fingers curl, as if you could fix Dirk to this very spot with one hand, and gather yourself. “I would not be separated from my Prince.”

Those molten eyes are searing as they search your face, his lips parting around a slow exhale.

It lasts so long, you fear you’ve been frozen in this moment, will remain here forever between two points. Lost.

Then, Dirk flicks his eyes up, away, past you, and his lips curve down. He holds out his hand.

The black suede is soft against your palm, and when Dirk urges you up, you go, climbing onto the back of his horse.

You’ve not ridden behind someone since you were a child. It’s strange, having your legs hang down with nothing for leverage. You suck in a gasp, reaching for-- Dirk is the only thing you can hold onto, and you sway into him, arms around his chest.

One of Dirk’s hands releases the reins, gripping your arm, steadying you. “Sorry!” you blurt, embarrassed.

“Hold on,” Dirk tells you.

He taps his heels against the horse’s flank, and it obediently starts forward into a trot.

There is no way you can look ahead with Dirk’s shoulders in your way, and if you leaned, you’d surely lose your balance and make a fool of yourself. So, you turn to look out instead.

You catch one glimpse of Jane’s stricken face as she watches you ride away, and that’s enough for you.

You shut your eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

The journey from Derse to Prospit amounted to the span of one very long magically induced nap, albeit with two days of recovery after.

From Prospit back to Derse, the trip is longer.

Dirk rides ahead of the legion with a smaller party, more mobile, but still rather terrifyingly well equipped. They’re more ready for war than an entire Prospitan company, and you wonder how Jane will--

You press your face against Dirk’s back and stop wondering.

To your surprise, you don’t make it very far before Dirk whistles for a stop, leading his horse over to a particular woman in the party. Prospit is still just barely visible, its peaks stretching above the horizon line.

Dirk dismounts, then holds out his hands to you to help you down as the horsemaster changes the saddle on the horse.

“It was a five day ride to Prospit,” Dirk tells you when you give him a curious look.

“Five-- _how_ , five, that’s not possible.” You’ve done the trip to Derse, albeit on the main road that follows a wider path to the west before turning south. You know a straight line Dirk’s party is taking is faster, but that’s _absurd_.

“Roxy does more than talk to crows. There are ways to speed a journey.”

It strikes you that if Dirk hadn’t used-- used _magic_ or eldritch boon or whatever it was on his way to Prospit, you might’ve already been spirited away across the ocean by the time he arrived. It was all so close.

“I could call for another horse, Your Highness,” the horsemaster remarks.

“No. Just the saddle.”

Now, there is less of a rush. There’s no enchantment you can see to Dirk’s horse. But the new saddle is more comfortable, longer down the back with a lower cantle. When you settle behind Dirk, you have more room.

But still nothing to hold onto.

It’s very strange, to have spent so long out of reach of the Prince only to be hitched close to him by necessity. As he sets off again, you take tentative hold of his hips.

The strain of holding yourself away from him hurts before long, not just emotionally but fighting against the regular jostle of the horse’s movement. And you have a lengthy journey ahead of you. Within the hour, you have your arms looped around him, one hand loosely gripping the saddle, the other against Dirk’s chest. Your cheek fits well against his back, between the shoulder blades with his cloak pushed out of the way. The long train of cloth wraps around one of your shoulders, down your back.

It’s so easy to sink into him, listening to his steady pulse with the weight of his cloak draped over you. You feel wrapped up, stolen away; can you still be spoils when you’ve stopped the war?

Night comes like a thief, sneaking in, and you barely notice. The countryside holds no interest compared to your perch, and you ride along for meandering hours, eyes shut as you lean on Dirk.

But eventually, the horses need a rest, let alone the riders, and the party sets up camp, a circle of tents attended to by guards standing watch in shifts.

You don’t speak as you eat a firecooked dinner, nor when you follow Dirk into one of the tents. You don’t speak as you strip out of most of your ornate robes, happy to be rid of them. Similarly, Dirk’s quiet as he shrugs out of his fine jacket and lifts the silver band from his head.

It seems important, the silence. Like a ritual you don’t want to break, a fasting of words.

Two bedrolls are laid out. Dirk climbs into one.

You stand over him, considering your own bedroll, and distance rears its ugly unwelcome head too soon. You’re not ready to give it any quarter, and kneel down by Dirk’s side, your hand braced on his arm.

Dirk looks at you, tired but attentive, and continues to say not a damned thing as you lay down at his side, ignoring your bedroll, and rest your head against his shoulder.

After that, everything seems… to slide together, so gradual, like a sugar cube dissolving into lukewarm tea. You break camp, you climb onto Dirk’s horse, you ride, you camp, you repeat the cycle, and the days just braid together into something that ties around you like spellwork. It feels like something inside you healing, an aching hollow filling with warm honey and liquor, as you rest your head against your Prince’s spine.

You sleep deeply at his side at night, and your eyes remain shut through much of the day’s riding until the only thing you are aware of is his heartbeat. You drape your arms around his waist, one hand lax and trusting, the other often finding its way through his coat to press against the shirt underneath, where his warm skin is ever closer.

You’ve wanted to touch him for so long, and the sudden separation made you weak. Now, you hold him, and feel something inside you mending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes its now six chapters because i am actually DONE with the entire fic BUT the final chapter was like +20K and no.
> 
> shut up or i will withhold the porn.
> 
> also there has been stunning fanart of this fic, you can see in my fic tag on callmearcturus. i highly rec taking a look, especially at [this stunning piece for Derse's side of the last chapter](http://awildcale.tumblr.com/post/151777128046/crossing-the-border-to-the-south-your-radiance)


	6. just take me with you as well

Your conveyance to Prospit was through slumber, and in a way your return to Derse is the same.

Peripherally, you’re aware you’ve arrived in familiar lands again, but you have no idea how long it takes, how many days have passed. It’s just familiar smells of pine and glimpses of still lakewater between the narrow slits of your eyelids as you doze against Dirk’s back, your breathing long since settled into a meditative rhythm that balances on the knife’s edge of unconsciousness.

When the horse finally stops, you have to blink yourself back to wakefulness. Dirk’s hand reaches back to rub against your knee. “We’re here.”

You hum something, and reluctantly push off his back, rubbing your face. He dismounts, and turns back to you, hands offered. It’s a lucky thing, given the way you stagger into him; your body scarcely remembers how to be on its own anymore.

Everything tingles pleasantly, and Dirk keeps one hand on your elbow, as if concerned you’ll topple over.

A throat clears. The ephemeral shroud over you fades.

Roxy stands just outside the stables. In your absence, the fleeting summer has passed, and she wears a thick coat amid the brisk chill and fallen leaves.

You tug Dirk’s cloak tighter around your shoulders. “Roxy…”

“Jake,” she says, something akin to a glare on her face.

The crow. Roxy would have been the first one to learn of your survival and apparent betrayal. It would have fallen to her to tell everyone.

The way anxiousness floods your body after so long ensconced in sleep-tinged blankness makes you nauseous. “Roxy, I-- I’m so sorry, I--”

Roxy smiles. “Good opening, sunspark.” She walks in, and lets out a gasp, laughing. “Bird’s fuckin’ bane, you smell like horses. Forget it, I wanted a hug, but damn.”

You hurry into her and throw your arms around her, unwilling to _not_ embrace this brilliant, keen woman. She lets out a high pitched yelp and puts her hands on your shoulders, pushing back. “Oh, awful, just terrible, I should throw you both into the damn lake!”

You lift her off her toes, and her arms fold around your shoulders, bracing herself. “Thank you,” you murmur against her coat. “Thank you for finding me, I didn’t want to go live on that blasted island all by my lonesome, it’s lovely to visit but--”

She kisses your forehead, then laughs and rubs her thumb over the spot. “Oops. Bit of a mark… and you’re welcome, sunspark. Just don’t ever do that again. And put me the hell down.”

You do, and step back.

“There’s baths being drawn. Once the twins get their hands on you, they aren’t likely to let go for about four years, so you best go wash up and change now.” She tugs at your lapel. “And burn this, sunspark, I don’t think the color’s going to be welcome in Derse for a good long while.”

You look down. Your royal attire is wrinkled and rough from the journey, and you’ve discarded many of the metals and gems along the path between here and Prospit, but the silk is still shining bright and bold.

No, this… won’t do. She’s right.

Roxy looks past you. “You, take your ass upstairs. You got a flock of advisors who want to know what the hell happened and why you didn’t come back with someone’s head in a bag.”

“You didn’t inform them of the developments?” Dirk asks quietly. “Your eyes were all over that camp. I think we spent more provisions on the crows than the people.”

“I assumed His Majesty wanted to bring his people up to speed regarding his glorious decision making, and saved you the honor.” She puts her hands on her hips. “You got this?”

“I do. It would be easier if my dear sister would have shown some kindness, but.”

She rolls her eyes. “Move it, Dirk. We’ve got an hourglass runnin’ out of sand and it’s named Rosalind Lalonde.”

“Ah.” He steps around the two of you, looking back just once before he’s gone, up the path to the castle.

You fold your arms over your chest, and tear your eyes from his back. He has duties to attend to, you would’ve known this if you’d been able to string a single coherent thought together in the past few days. “Then I should…”

Roxy, despite her earlier protests, puts a hand on your shoulder and leads you away. “Come on. Let’s clean you up. I’ll get you some clothes.”

 

* * *

 

 

You bathe quickly in one of the guest bedrooms, behind a screen as you listen to Roxy give orders to the nearby hands, to quite _literally_ have your old clothes burned and to retrieve some suitable pieces from your wardrobe upstairs. “And take all the sheets off his stuff,” she adds to one maid’s back. “And put the knob back on, all that. Air it out.”

You take a minute to catch your breath. It’s been well over a month since you were taken to Prospit, you think. And much of it spent with the royal family thinking you were dead.

Roxy taps her knuckles against the frame of the screen. “You doing okay in there?”

“Yes, yes, I--” You swallow past the tension in your throat with effort. “I suppose I’m fortunate you hadn’t cleared out my room yet.”

“Yeah, well. Kind of busy with other stuff at the time. Funeral arrangements are difficult, you know, since you’re not _quite_ Dersian, so there was all this arguing about what’s applicable to a Prospitan and what’d be disrespectful, all while trying to appease our pals in the Deeps, it was all a tricky bit to figure out, and Dirk had his hands full there.”

You suck in a sharp breath, like swallowing a blade, and cough. “You-- I…”

Quietly, Roxy tells someone, “Hey, give us a minute?” The door opens and shuts as someone leaves, and Roxy taps her fingers against the screen again before sidestepping it.

You stare up at her, unsure what the blazing hell to say.

She smiles, sadly. “You know, I thought it was weird from the start. No body, right? I was pretty sure the rumors of Alternian cannibalism were just shittalking, but.” She shrugs one shoulder. “Dirk and the twins were in a bad place, and... Anyway. Got news of _you_ catnapping in the Prospitan palace about a day before Dirk announced any planned to-do.”

“How… fortunate,” you say hollowly, sinking lower in the tub. “It’d be rude to show up after my own funeral, I imagine.”

“Hey,” Roxy says, gently, and you make yourself look up at her again. “It worked out. And… fair enough, shit around here has been pretty terrible since your cousin went and pulled that stunt? Obviously. But, this, we can handle. We can figure _this_ out.” Her lips quirk up. “I’m not sure Dirk would’ve survived the other thing. I think you and me know that.”

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I keep saying it, but truly, Roxy, I’m so sorry.”

“I know you are. It’s fine. Or, will be.” She arches an eyebrow. “You ain’t ambassador anymore. But what a final hurrah, huh?”

You bark a quick, hard laugh. “Well. I was good for something at last.”

“Oh, stop. Hey, I’m going to go let the kids know you’re here, because, seriously, the longer I avoid it? The longer I’m going to be the evil older sister, and you know how vindictive they can be with their little grudges. So finish up.”

“Right away. Thank you.”

Roxy lingers just long enough to drag a _very_ inappropriate eye over you, which is ridiculous, you know she’s not in a position to see anything more lascivious than she’d already see growing up with two brothers. Regardless, she winks at you, “Good luck, sunspark,” and she’s gone.

You finish washing off. By the time you’re ready, someone has set out clothes for you; pale purple long sleeves with embroidered cuffs, a vest striped with emerald and violet perfectly fitted to your torso, and dark pants. In the mirror, you cut a lovely figure, even if you miss the presence of lighter colors. But Roxy was right; you can’t imagine the standards of Prospit will be welcome here now.

You know the path upstairs by heart now, and make your way. It’s very strange to walk through the castle alone. Roxy was right about _many_ things: You are no longer the Ambassador. You have no official capacity in Derse. You’re just… a guest. A companion.

Every guard you pass, a worried chill runs down your spine. But no. It’s fine. No one pays you mind. This is home now, and it wouldn’t do to be afraid of every shadow. They’ve never harmed you before.

Your intention, to go upstairs and meet with the twins, runs into a snag when you reach the winding stairwell leading to the royal wing and find them sitting on the steps, heads ducked together as they talk.

You slow to a halt.

Dave is the first to look up, as if suddenly aware he’s being watched. “Jake!” He tears away from the steps, hopping down the last two, and you brace yourself as he hurls himself into you like a very friendly punch to the gut.

A winded “Oof,” still makes it out of you regardless, and you let the motion carry you over, bending to put your arms around him. “Hello there, Dave.”

Dave proceeds to rub his face against you, like an excited kitten. “I knew the soldiers had to be wrong! I never felt you go, I didn’t see it, but they said you had!” He looks up at you. “You’re back now, right? Because if you’re going to disappear again, that-- that’s shit, and I don’t want to do this again.”

You tap his nose. “Language. And no. No, I’m here now.” It’s a force of habit you don’t want to break, to brush your fingers through his soft flyaway hair. “I’m very sorry to have scared you.”

“Is that all?” Rose asks, drawing your attention to her. She’s standing on the steps, up far enough so she can stand at your eye level. “Do you have _any_ idea how turbulent this has been? How we stood on the brink of long, bloody wars and devastation?” She crosses her arms, chin lifted. “While you were off being kidnapped or something, I had to watch the possibilities split and fork like cracked glass. All because of you, and Dirk, and your Queen.”

You breathe out slowly. “I don’t think she’s my Queen anymore, sadly.” You step closer, which is a feat with Dave continuing to cling to you. He seems to be enjoying making it as difficult to move as possible, actually. Still, you stand as close to Rose as her perch on the steps will allow and take in her hard, narrow look, how her lip pouts out just barely. “You watched it happen, that night.”

Rose nods once. “You fell.”

“I’m sorry.” You hold out your hand to her.

She manages to sustain her glare for another five seconds, before she sniffs loudly and flicks her thumb against her eyes. “I couldn’t understand how I didn’t forsee it. So much was in my head, but I _should’ve_ seen you. You’re too important, now. To my divinations.”

“Your divinations. Of course,” you agree kindly.

“Oh, enough!” She pouts fully now. “I detest this sort of display. You’re not an idiot, despite first impressions, and you know I-- I would miss you very much if you were dead. And you’re the finest gift I’ve ever been given.”

“Technically, you said I was Dirk’s present.”

She rolls her eyes, and leans over to take your hand, pulling you in closer until she can put her arms around your neck. “Well, he’s bad at accepting gifts. And siblings share everything, you know this.”

Right. You kiss her cheek, shutting your eyes, one arm wrapped around Dave’s shoulders, one around her waist. It’s awkward, with you leaning up the stairs because Rose refuses to relinquish her height advantage, but you’re so relieved they’re here, that they still want you around, you’ll endure.

Or you do for a few moments, then say, “Perhaps I’m feeling my age, or the ride here has taken its toll, but let’s go sit? Please?”

Dirk’s room is shut, and you’re unsure if he’s returned yet, so you are led by Dave’s hand to the twins’ chambers instead. Rose calls for food, and orders you to sit. In here, the fire’s already going, pushing back the autumnal chill.

As you settle in, Dave sits next to you on the bed, and stares at his slippers as he asks, “Roxy told us some stuff, but, you didn’t come back? Did they lock you up in the dungeon, because that’d definitely make sense.  I thought you’d come back. I kept thinking it, ‘cause no one believed me when I said you couldn’t be dead, Dirk especially, but he was really… bad, and I guess that makes sense, so--”

“It was complicated.” You tug him against your side. “I would’ve come back if I could. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yeah…” He quiets down, which you’re grateful for.

Rose, for her part, doesn’t ask you about Prospit. When the mood strikes her, she can be so kind. She just makes you tea and talks about her studies, barely pausing for input as you eat and listen.

They don’t demand much of you. Just… you. Which you are happy to give them. After so long being a token for trade, their affection continues to heal that aching thing in your chest, and lets you stop looking at their eager round faces and comparing them to Jane’s.

Dave falls asleep, predictably enough. You let him rest on your lap for a while before slipping out from under him and pulling the blankets up around his curled up form.

“Has he been sleeping at all?” you ask.

“No. Contain your astonishment.” Rose watches you fuss over him. “You didn’t have to return to us.”

Of all the things for Rose to see. “No,” you agree. “But… a great deal of our problems came from my… trouble being forthright with what I wanted. And I wanted to come back. If you’d have me.”

“I dread to think what we’d do without you,” Rose says, and it’s sarcastic, but you smile.

“Goodnight, Princess.”

“Goodnight, Jake.” As your hand settles on the door handle, she tosses out, sweetly, “I told you he’d forgive you.”

 

* * *

 

 

By the time you are finished with the twins, it’s startlingly dark out. It’s becoming troubling, how much you are losing track of time. A week of travel here, a month of hopelessness there, an uncertain number of days, and now the moon’s high enough to cast long shadows from the windows down the hall.

Uncertain, you make your way towards your room, your eyes low, looking for…

Under Dirk’s door, a long unbroken line of firelight fights against the blue-white moonlight. He must’ve returned while you were with the twins. You wish he’d let you know.

For the first time in a long, long while, you let yourself into the drawing room.

The firelight is bright, but harsh, casting dark shapes around the room as it flickers. You’re struck by how this room differs so completely from Jane’s, even in the most basic, mundane sense of things, like how deeper the shadows seem, how much longer they stretch.

The Prince is standing over his desk at the far end of the room, a pen between his lips as he sorts through bound sheafs of paper. It might be the dramatic cast of light against his face, but he looks tired. You daresay he looks like a man who just lived through a barely-averted war and needs to rest.

You shut the door behind you. “How were things in the war room?”

Dirk looks up, pulling the pen out of his mouth. There’s something faintly dazed in his expression, as if he’s forgotten what it’s like to have you here. It takes him a moment of just staring at you to respond. “Well enough.”

He turns back to the desk, dropping the pen into its inkwell, and tracing his fingertips against another page lightly.

You had hoped you were both past this period of silence. During your journey, it’d been a balm over all your hurts and pains. Now as you step gingerly into the room, you hate that you feel _nervous_. “What are you doing now? Surely you can take a rest by now, if only for the night.”

“I…” He hisses out a sigh, lifting a hand to rub at his nose, between his eyes. “Arrangements. I have to do this now, or I never will.”

You wish he’d look at you. Apprehensiveness settles in your chest, making itself comfortable. “What is it? Or am I let to know? I don’t want to be a pest, though I’m a little concerned you need to have a lie down, Dirk.”

A blatant shiver runs down his spine, doing nothing to abate your worry. You cross the room, closer.

He takes one step back. “There’s.” He inhales deeply, and from here the weariness in him is only more obvious. “A day’s travel northeast, a fort on the edge of the forest. It’s a little warmer there, and quiet. It’ll be comfortable, and close enough for Dave and Rose to visit. I’m told it has good hunting as well, and is far enough out of the valley to avoid the winter wind chill.”

Your smile fractures and falls slowly. “What are we talking about?”

“I can’t.” He pauses, looks away to compose himself. “This is difficult. You have to understand I can’t release you. This, everything that happened, it’s--”

“You aren’t making much sense right now,” you point out as carefully as you can.

“I know I’m not.” His fingers tap against the desk, eyes downcast. “I… need you to understand. You can’t leave Derse again. You can’t return to Prospit ever again. Not after this. But I don’t want it to be a-- a prison. So, there’s a fort. You may even like it. You’ll be away from the Court itself, away from the obligations of it. You can do as you wish.” He looks at you, through his lashes. “So long as you stay.”

“You could do a better job of explaining,” you say, faintly. “Why am I leaving? Are you… sending me away?”

Dirk’s entire body goes tense, hands clenching, shoulders tightening, until he breathes out again, slow and painful-sounding. “I can’t keep you here. I _can’t_ continue doing this, Jake, out of this--” he stops, shakes his head hard. “You drive me mad. And I cannot keep putting you ahead of Derse. Apparently I’ll do anything in the world you ask of me. It’s like you’ve put me under an enchantment, but Roxy’s _checked_ for that. So no, this is just how I am.” A small, delirious little laugh breaks out of him. “I tried for so long to just keep you at arm’s length and wait for it to pass, but I’m out of my mind, I rode out to take a kingdom and instead I took _you_.” He lowers his arms, hanging long and bereft at his sides. “Again.”

The cold visage of the other Prince is gone, so thoroughly you can scarcely remember how it wore Dirk’s face. Now, you watch him nearly wilting as you stare at him, turning away from you to lean on the desk, breathing deeply, as if through an injury.

“I refuse to be a mad king like my father,” Dirk says quietly. “And _this_ , this shouldn’t happen, I’m supposed to be…” He presses his fingers against his chest, over his heart, before letting them fall to his side again.

You step closer, and Dirk nearly flinches, looking… raw and hurt. “I spared Prospit for you _twice_ now. What more could you _want_ of me?”

It’s all slowly settling in your head, and you offer the words as you put them together. “Is that why you think I’m here?”

“I don’t know.” He leans further onto his desk, bending like a frozen tree. “Nothing has gone the way I intended, from the very beginning of this. And that’s my fault.” He huffs out a self-deprecating laugh. “Have I ever told you I was sorry? I don’t remember.”

“Considering the alternative--”

“Do not,” Dirk says gravely, “give me platitudes of how I was less cruel than I could’ve been.”

This was not what was supposed to happen. You thought that you’d… that he understood. “And if I don’t want to go? You and Jane both, you made me into a pawn in your game. No, sorry, a knight, was it?” Dirk flinches again, eyes shutting. “Is that all I am to you?”

“No,” Dirk says. “That’s the problem. And it’s mine, and it’s my weakness. But I… want you to be happy, and I’ll see to it you have anything you desire.”

“Anything I desire,” you repeat. “Then let me be clear.”

When you bridge the space between you and the Prince, he straightens, leans back with a wary look, like he expects something in particular. You’ve faced off with him before in this room, and know what he’s waiting for. A strike. And you’d bet what final possessions you have in this world that he’d welcome it.

He’s even waiting for it, eyeing your hands considerately before telling you earnestly and whisper soft, “Go ahead. Make it count.”

You don’t punch him. He’s hurt enough, by you or by himself or by the circumstances that brought you here. Whatever it is, it’s done as far as you are concerned.

You reach up, take his face between your hands, and pull him down far enough to kiss him.

Dirk still reacts like you’ve struck him, a quick snap-release of tension in his body, his quick inhale against your mouth. You’ve been here before, been left cold, and you refuse to do it again, and hold him close, tracing his lips with yours.

For a moment, he feels malleable to your touch, swaying in, breathing against you. It stops, his strength returning, and Dirk manages to pull back an inch from you before you stop him. “Jake,” he gasps, wild around the eyes, a rich flush already laying conquest to the pale plains of his face, “I can’t, I--”

You lift onto your toes, kiss the words out of his mouth, feel his hands on your shoulders. If he pushes you away, you’ll go; you’ll admit you… were somehow _impossibly_ wrong, but he just holds you, fingers twisting slowly in the sleeves of your shirt, thumbs slipping under your vest.

He draws back again. “By the fucking Deeps, you’re going to destroy me, Jake, don’t-- don’t do this if you don’t mean it.”

You’re aching at the sheer expanse of pain in his voice. This man, this tender heart you want to hold between your palms. You let go of his face, ignoring the bolt of guilt at how he whines, and grab his wrists, pulling them down and around your waist. “Touch me, Dirk, _please_.”

The composure you’ve been chipping away at breaks, and his arms go around you, hands wide and greedy, spread over as much as they can touch. He pulls you in or pulls himself in, and when you kiss him now he lets out a low, hard cry that you swallow. Kiss him again, and lean back just to feel him chase you, his reservations wrecked and dashed against the stone as he turns his head and fits your mouths together.

It’s so much more than you even imagined, exquisite like a silver bell. You’ve subsisted so long on longing glances and stolen contact that the full force of Dirk’s attention is like a downpour against you. His arm works up your back to clutch you against his chest, and you grab his collar in return, opening your mouth and gasping.

You’re overwhelmed by it, but lean up for more regardless. Deep inside, you feel something left neglected and dormant start to stir, unfurling green and lush and pressing outward, against your skin, against the cage of your ribs, and sighing out your mouth.

He keeps trying to get more of you, hand pulling distractedly at your vest, cursing quietly when he finds your shirt underneath. His sudden lack of coordination makes you laugh. “Here, it’s easier if you,” and you pull at the front of your vest, letting the buttons slide loose, and in a flash his hands are there to help you, peeling the fine satiny thing down your arms and falling to the ground. You yank your shirt tails loose; “ _There_.”

You shudder when he takes the invitation and palms the skin under the back of your shirt. Before, you slept against him with layers between you. This feels like more. So much so, you hardly know what to do with it, sure you’ll simply fill up on sensation like an overflowing glass.

You wonder if he feels the same. If you can make him feel the same.

When you first push him back, Dirk tries to fight you. You push harder. “I think it-- it might behoove us to find a more comfortable space, Dirk.”

“What do horses have to do with…” he mumbles, mouthing your jawline.

“Your _bedroom_ , you starblasted fool, come on.”

He is very lucky you are so fond of him given the way he nearly walks backward into the stone archway before you grab him by the front of his robe and redirect him properly.

You’ve never been in here, never even gotten a good look inside. It’s functionally the same as your inner chambers, with wardrobe and bed. Dirk’s bed is larger, with curtains drawn aside. You see the moonlit edges of a curios cabinet and more bookshelves and the elusive bathtub he’s so dedicated to with its pretty black porcelain, but the details escape you. The darkness here makes you settle, quieting your frayed nerves, and for a moment you stand there and hold him near, kiss more chastely.

He sighs into your mouth, going still as well, letting you nudge his lips apart and drowsily press your tongue against his, exploring for a moment, no urgency to be had.

It tips from perfectly lovely to not enough suddenly. You blindly feel for the belt of his robe, pull at the knot and the hem until it slides loose. Dirk drops one shoulder, letting it slide off, and the rest is shoved off him easily. He breaks from you to peel off the shirt underneath, tossing that somewhere else without looking.

He looks at you, and his hands hover, hesitating.

“None of _that_ ,” you tell him curtly, and undo just enough buttons to pull your shirt off. Grab his hand, and place his palm on your collarbone.

You expect that to get him going, but for a second he just stands there, looking over you with a gaze so heavy it feels like a touch of its own. You rock back, the flame in you slowing to a smoulder as Dirk cups your hip with one hand and just sweeps his thumb over the line of your clavicle. Left, right, and back again, so smooth and so minute it twinges through you, making you gasp and burn all over, flush spreading every place his eyes touch.

He pushes down the line of your trousers, and asks, “May I?”

You nod, and brace yourself on his shoulders as he divests you of the rest of your clothes swiftly, helping you step out of them.

The cool air insinuates, and gooseflesh pops across your skin.

Dirk could clearly stand there all night and just stare at you, but you’re not so patient. You push him back until he sits on the edge of the bed, and kneel over him, one knee planted at his hip.

He grabs you around the waist, and lets himself fall back, taking you down with him with a yelp.

“Sorry,” he says, clearly not. He is very warm under you, and you shift to lay against him. He sweeps his hands up your back, warm, warm, and you touch your forehead against his, humming.

He squeezes your ass, and you hitch against him, breathing hard. “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, vulgar and throaty, kissing your neck. “You’ll let me-- I can, can’t I? Jake?”

You nod, tipping your head back so he can drag his teeth down your neck. Dirk sighs sweetly, and somehow pulls you closer, guiding you with a bold hand until you rock against his soft, loose sleep pants. Just the friction feels good, let alone the attention laved against your neck, and you really shouldn’t be just rubbing your cock against him, but Dirk coaxes you along, wants it and you are so tired of denying yourself.

Both of his hands cup your ass, and you bubble out a laugh before he kisses you, licks wetly into your mouth as he helps you grind against him. You plant your elbows by his head, feeling unbalanced and precarious as you slip further into the rhythm. He’s kneading you, and it’s so tender and proprietary at once, you whine into his mouth.

“Ooh, Dirk, you’re…” you groan softly as his fingers just dig in for a wonderful moment then let go again. “You’re going to set me off a bit soon, easy there.”

“I know.” He smiles against your cheek. “Can feel it. You feel so good, Jake.”

Which is all very nice, but he’s not listening well. You struggle to work your arm down, shoving at the hem of his loose sleep pants. They’re leaving very little to your imagination, but you want them _gone_. He’s no help at all as you reach and push his waistband down enough. Swatting one of his grabby hands away, you hook your foot in the band and drag it further down.

“What,” he asks, bewildered, “are you doing?”

“Trying to get you disrobed, if His Majesty would deign to help.”

“Titles again.” He pulls his covetous hands away from your ass long enough to help get him naked. In unison, you push further up onto the bed, away from the edge. “Better?”

You sit on his hips. “Much.”

Dirk just _smiles_. So sudden and so broad, you’re mystified by the way it transforms his face. You’ve never seen him truly smile, you realize, and you love it, both can’t bear to look away and can’t bear not to lean down and taste it on his lips.

You kiss him so deeply you fear you could just tip forward and fall into him, and never be free of him again. It sounds like exactly what you want, and you fumble to grab the headboard he’s sat against, holding tight as you try to devour him or get him to devour you. Either.

His hands find your ass again, and the small of your back, and soon he has you grinding against him.

Coherence leaves you. Control follows it merrily out the door. Desperation fills their empty spaces as you kiss Dirk until you’re senseless, and flex your legs to frot against him. It’s so good, so much, you never want to stop, just stay here forever and let the world outside hang.

Dirk holds you, helps you move against him, breathing deepening. “Jake… Jake...” You chase his mouth, kiss him more. “Fuck, oh, you’re so good, can…” He drags in a deep breath. “Can I have you, Jake, fuck, please?”

You nod, panting against his mouth. You want more. You don’t think there’s any room in your head for more, but you want it anyway.

He holds you firmly and rolls, taking you over with him, onto your side on the bed, then looking up at him in dazed surprise. You realize what he means. “Oh.”

Dirk bows his head, kisses you. “Please, I want you so much.”

“Alright, come on.” You flush up all over as Dirk’s eyes go bright and pleased. He bends to give you a swift kiss before he leans away from you. You almost abandon the idea right then, unwilling to have him leave you even for a moment. But as he holds himself up to look for something, you can admire him. Here, the moonlight’s just right to let you see all the lean muscle of him, trace his skin with your fingers. His shiver at the light touch just makes you want to do it again.

“Got it, right.” He moves back to sit on his heels, a glass bottle with a narrow neck in his palm. The sight of it makes everything suddenly more real. Your legs restlessly bend, feet pulling at the sheets.

“Dirk.” You wait for him to look at you. “Just to be, well, forthright and-- and all about this, I’ve not...” You wave a hand at-- between you both. “Had the opportunity to do this. Yet. Or, uh, much of… anything, if I’m honest?”

Dirk blinks and shrugs. “Me either. We’ll work it out.”

That’s a good attitude for it, but you frown and grab his hand before he can unstop that little bottle. “Wait, you’ve-- haven’t you?”

The question finally slows Dirk’s enthusiasm. He sits back, looking at-- you’re quite laid out for him. He puts a hand on your bent knee, rubs up and down. “No. But I… read enough. I know what to do. I just never had… opportunity, yeah.” He frowns, looking at your thigh, fingers brushing against the grain of your hair there.

You nudge your other knee into his side. “But?” Because you can sense that’s not the end of it.

“But, what? There was, when I was younger, back _before_ , there was... “ He sighs, hard. “You may be familiar with this story. A visiting delegation. A handsome guest. My inability to--” He bites down on his words, shaking his head. “Control myself.”

He’s close enough you can drag your fingers against his side, and you wait.

“I couldn’t work up the courage to say anything for the longest time. But eventually I did, during their final day here. I thought admitting my attraction would matter. It mattered enough for him to take _his_ pleasure from the mouth of Dersian royalty, but he still left come morning.” Dirk sighs. “By the end of the year, I was sitting on the throne. So no, I’ve not had opportunity.”

He can’t seem to stop touching you as he speaks. You catch his hand in yours, tangle your fingers. It makes him look at you again, uncertain, but hopeful.

“Come here?” You tug at his hand, and he follows, bracing over you as you touch him softly, up his arm, across his shoulders, the vulnerable skin under his chin.

“Mh,” he hums indistinctly.

“Listen to me.” You shake him gently until he’s holding your gaze. “I’m not leaving. And _you_ are not sending me away, are you?”

“No.” He bends further, nose against your temple, lips sliding against your cheek to your mouth. “I don’t think I can.”

You meet his kiss and warm under his leisurely, thorough exploration. He asks again, “May I have you?”

You nod against him. “Empty night, yes. The answer will always be yes, my Prince.”

Dirk lets out a breath like you’ve punched him, tucking his face against your neck. You frown, and palm his spine. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says, muffles, lifting his head again. The flush over his cheeks is renewed and vivid. “Here, let me.” He resettles between your legs, tips the liquor from his little bottle onto his fingers, and you lay your head back, taking a deep steadying breath. The taste of oil is in the air, something viscous and just faintly green.

Dirk’s hand spreads wide over your chest, skin-seeking, and you shudder as his thumb presses in hard, drags down, a tactile expedition. He touches your navel almost curiously, and you exhale hard. “Dirk, don’t get lost.”

“Too late,” he mutters, but finally does something with his slick fingers. The first touch makes you tense in surprise, but you are determined not to ruin this now, and piece by piece make your muscles relax for him.

It’s just pressure and the delicate touch of his finger at first, barely anything at all, but it thrums through you regardless. You can feel yourself blushing madly, and hear Dirk let out a soothing sound as he opens you up around one finger.

Sweat rises in pinpricks all over you, and you bite down your groan, just lay still and let Dirk push in slowly, carefully.

He gets two inside you, curls them gently, and asks, “Alright?”

Your answer is not quite coherent, just a vaguely affirmative string of syllables. Your feet press to the bed, lifting your body just a bit before you settle again.

Dirk bends over you, kissing your cheek, and moves his fingers in and out of you, so damned carefully it makes you want to yell at him. It’s strumming through you in weird ways; you turn your head against the sheets and let out one full-body tremble. “ _Oh,_ fuck.”

He laughs, shallowly. “Yeah. Intense. It’ll get easier.”

It’s a great effort to look at him. “You said you hadn’t.”

“With anyone else, _to_ anyone else.”

That… well, that’s certainly a stunning mental portrait. The Prince making use of that little bottle of fancy oil on himself. You shudder all over, wonder how often he’d-- if he had so abused himself after any of your more heated moments together, like _you_ had. Like your little sparring match. By the fucking sun, _you_ had used the memory for days afterward.

Dirk noses against your neck. “Enjoying that thought, Jake?” He just wiggles his fingers, and you puff out a laugh.

“It’s hard to a--appear unaffected with your fingers-- Dirk, stop teasing already.”

He removes his hand, so quickly you want to grab him and drag him back. Fortunately for him, he’s back on you again quickly, hand slicker, and working three fingers into you now. You whine through your teeth, grasping at the sheets, lips parted. “Oh, _oh_.”

It’s messy and uncoordinated when he kisses your open mouth, spreading you out further with his fingers fanning out slowly. You lose control a little bit, shifting restlessly under him, the obscene noises out of your mouth unbidden. You feel him kiss your temple, and withdraw.

“No, no,” you mumble, trying to grab his hand.

“It’s, fuck, Jake, it’s easier, just.” He holds your hips, trying to coax you to turn. As soon as your brain catches up with him, you shove his hands away.

“Don’t you dare,” you tell him.

Dirk lets out a delighted, almost hysterical noise. “Alright, whatever you-- you want, it’s fine.” He gets closer to you, moves your legs where he wants them. “It should be-- just tell me if it’s not, I don’t want to hurt you.”

You just nod at him, holding on as he braces himself, dragging his oiled hand over his cock before grabbing it at the base and moving in.

You can’t tell if it just feels different from his fingers or if your mind is catching on the jagged edge of understanding that’s his cock sliding into you. It ricochets around in your skull, intense and rattling, but you hold onto him through it. You wrap your hand around his bicep as you breath long and deep, feeling him sink in.

He’s barely breathing, just sharp winded noises broken by long stretches of silence. That distantly seems like a bad idea, but you’re somewhat preoccupied with the steady stretch around him. It’s a… lot, and your head lolls against the sheets, shuddering.

Dirk lets out a pained breath. “Oh, _fuck_.” His hips stutter up hard, and he freezes. “Sorry, fuck, I--”

You look at him. His face is pulled tight, too tight to be mistaken for pleasure, his shoulders shaking. He’s still breathing in fits and stops.

You reach up for him, cup his neck and one taut shoulder, pulling. He bends, reluctant but always willing to be closer. You grab for more of his skin, feeling the tightly wound tension in him. “Dirk, stay with me, it’s alright.”

He shuts his eyes, kisses you, messy and lost. Holding on, you bring him back slowly. This part is easy. You’re getting very good at _this_ , familiar with his mouth and how he’ll fight you for just a moment before opening up. You drag him through wet, meandering kisses until he’s breathing again, rocking his hips just a bit against you.

Finally, he braces himself around you, slides out, and back in one long stroke. You wait for him to do it again, panting against your cheek, and again before relaxing. One hand still around his shoulders, you hold on and hum as you get acquainted with the sensation, this new piece of vulnerability and heat. “Oh.” You hitch against him, good, good as gold, and sigh hard. “ _Oh_ , my Prince.”

He makes that hurt noise, burying his face in your neck. “Jake, _fuck_.”

You get it then. Grab him by his hair to hold him still and turn your head to say it in his ear, “ _My Prince_? Is that it?”

Dirk says nothing, just jerks against you, into you, harder. You pull him in, press him full against you. He grasps your sides, then up your back, a hand curling to hold your shoulder, his other fisted in the bed. The beat of his hips, that slide into you, gets faster.

There’s a density to your body you’ve never felt before. Everything folds under, subsumed by the heat and contact. It feels like trying to pull yourself from water, how it tries to pull you back, pull you under. A struggle you want to lose.

You barely have the ability to kiss him, just press your open mouth against his cheek and say it again until he’s shaking apart around you.

His next breath is choked. It catches on rough edges in his mouth, and fans over your skin. “Jake, I--” he fucks all the way into you, whines. “I-- I can’t… can’t let you go, let me just-- Ngh, I love you so much it’s killing me, just let me--”

Your mouth drags down to his neck, moans muffled against his skin. You want him impossibly closer, fingers pulling at every piece of him you can reach. He’s falling apart for you, all of his poise and clever words shot into the stars, just this remaining in its wake, this man you’d give up everything for. It’s worth it to have _this_ , with him. _Your_ Prince, no one else’s, and you cling to him as he fucks you both into incoherence, feeling him lose control piece by broken piece with only you to hold him together.

You would happily live in that moment forever, take it as your due for everything you’ve endured to get to him and have him here, but it has to end. Dirk works one hand down to clutch your ass in an almost painful grip and works himself deep, rising up above you again at last. No longer hiding, you can take in what a wreck he is, lip nearly bitten into and red from his teeth, eyes open but dazed and drunk, and smeared damp tracks at the corners.

You hold his face between your hands, keep him there and watch him come like that, eyes widening but unseeing as it unravels from him, right into your willing hands. Inside, so fucking deep you barely understand how he’s worked his way so far into your body, you feel him spill out, somehow even warmer than his cock, joining the mess of sweat and slick oil. You tense up, a startled cry from your lips, and Dirk jerks, cursing as more pushes out of him. _Fuck_.

You’re laid out under him, panting, trying to just look at him and focus on that, but you can’t stop moving. Your spine arches, you want to push back against him, you need more, and it’s just out of your reach.

Dirk sways into you, kisses you, and gets an elbow planted by your head. “I’ve got you, you’re mine, I have you, here,” he mumbles indistinctly, the words half-lost against your mouth as he works his way back, slipping out of you. You twitch, moan, and feel him shush you. “Easy, I’ve got you.” He moves onto his knees, over you, and wraps his fingers around your achingly hard cock, squeezes. “Here.”

You don’t have the patience for softness anymore and get your own hand on yourself, half folded around his. You make him move with you, as hard as you _need_ it, until it crests up in you like a wave, and you groan against his mouth, coming across his stomach and yours.

Your hand flops back against the bed. Dirk holds you longer, fingers gently stroking your dick until you knee him in the side, and he mercifully stops.

You can feel him staring at you, and decide to let him for a moment, instead just resting your cheek against the sheets and catching your breath. He keeps doing it, touching you with the pads of his fingers, along the cut of your hips, down your flank, tracing a nipple with idle interest, the hollow of your throat.

“I told you not to get lost,” you mumble drowsily.

“I’ve been lost from the first moment I saw you.” Kisses you again, at the corner of your mouth.

You work up the strength to look at him. It takes a moment. He’s not looking at you. Or, he is, but not your face, just following the path of his fingers with keen eyes. You don’t mind, just sigh and try to curl up on your side.

“Wait, hold on,” Dirk says, stopping you.

“What?” You are fairly sure you’re whining, but you’re also suddenly very tired and very eager to rest.

Dirk, damn him, climbs off the bed, nearly stumbling before he regains his footing. That, at least, is a nice view, and you watch him walk around his room.

He returns with a cloth, damp from being dipped in the basin, and sets himself diligently to the task of cleaning you up. You sigh, and do nothing to help, leaving him to lift your arm to wash you, and letting it fall back down right after as he move on to the next. “Is this necessary?”

“It’ll just take a moment, relax. I have you.”

“You do,” you affirm quietly. “Now that you do, and you’ve _had_ me, you should let me sleep.”

“Are you always so irritable after an orgasm?”

You stifle a laugh. “You’re fast on the path to never finding out.”

He seems very unthreatened, even lifting your leg to hook over his shoulder as he drags the cloth over your skin. You hum, sore but comfortably so, until he presses one finger into you. You gasp, bite your lip, turning your face into the bed.

He pets your leg, pulling out and returning you down against the bed. Then climbs off again.

The warm spent feeling would be enough to carry you to sleep, but his attentions have you awake enough to climb under the bedding, dragging a pillow under your head. It’s a nice bed. You could be happy right here.

After too long waiting, you sigh and lift your head, looking back over your shoulder. “You can have a bath in the morning, Your Majesty, just…”

He’s finished washing up. Now, he just stands by the bed, seeming faintly confused and looking at you with his pale eyes.

“What?” you ask, quieter.

He comes out of it, smiling softly. “Nothing.” And climbs in with you, situating himself.

You know better, and turn into him. This you’ve done before, several times now, and find it returns easily. Your head against his shoulder, a hand folded possessively over his heart. “Just sleep.”

Dirk hums, and rests his head against yours, and settles down.

 

* * *

 

 

You have not shared your bed with someone since you were a teenager. It’s different now that you are an adult. Fewer whispered tall tales and snacks, fewer clothes, more contact.

You could do without being stared at, though.

It’s probably still morning by the time you stir, though honestly you have no idea. This is not your bedroom, and the light casts differently on the floor, ruining your little trick to determine if you’ve slept in or not.

The light glints off your spectacles, on the bedside table. You reach out, nudge them until the light stops reflecting into your eyes.

Something shifts in the bed, and you look over your shoulder at last.

Dirk is awake, lying on his front, arms folded around his pillow. He’s watching you, and looks far more awake than you are. It’s a small delight to see him this way, bare shoulders flecked with freckles and hair an extravagant mess.

“What’re you doing,” you ask him drowsily. “D’you need me to get a move on so you can do… royal things, and such?”

“I think more than anything I need you to stay right here.” He smiles, faintly.

He sounds _entirely_ too cognizant and alert. “You’ve been watching me sleep.” You lift your hand, cover his eyes. “Stop that.”

“As you please,” Dirk says, but ducks his head under your hand and keeps staring at you. His hair is very soft against your palm. You dig your fingers in, let the tangles come loose. Dirk bends, humming, and you draw him down to rest against your shoulder.

“Need a few more winks. Go back to sleep.”

His arm goes around your waist as he settles his head against your chest. He’s very long, but clings to you like tangled yarn, and you don’t want to dislodge him, just close your eyes and doze off again.

 

* * *

 

 

Hours later, it’s only just barely morning still, and you stand by the fireplace wearing one of Dirk’s tunics, and toss pieces of parchment into the fire one by one.

Dirk’s _arrangements_. A nice cozy fort with good hunting within riding distance. More enforcement of the Prince’s obsession with distance.

You hold the stack of papers in your hands, and watch each one brown and blacken and curl.

“That one is--” Dirk cuts in as you hold a slim bound journal over the flames. You give him an arch look. He quells. “I’ll… have them draw up another copy, it’s fine.”

Onto the logs it goes.

By the time you’re interrupted, you have the entire treatise on loneliness and unnecessary sacrifices destroyed and are happily warming your hands from the kindling.

Dirk hovers near you, almost uncertain. You can see him deliberating, breathing steady and deep. It takes a long moment before he reaches out to you, putting a hand on the small of your back. Once he has, you give him an encouraging smile, and he is quick to go for more, his arms looped around your hips, hands flat against your thighs. It’s easy to lean back against him. His height is even more obvious like this, his chin resting on your shoulder.

The kiss he presses to your neck, at the soft skin under your ear, is slow and heavy with intent. You hum. “Do you mean to wind me up like a music box? Unkind of you.”

“Only if I intend not to take the time, listen to the sounds you make,” he murmurs into your skin.

You laugh and elbow him back. “Absolutely _not_ , Dirk, honestly. We’ll miss breakfast, and it’s already dreadfully late.”

“Already late enough, we could--”

“No. Come on, we need to go and be social animals and see to the twins.” You see him, just barely pouting. “It would be cruel to them, not to go, given how horrendous the last bloody month-and-a-half has been.”

“This is cruel to _me_ ,” Dirk says with such petulance, you have to stifle more laughter. He follows you when you leave, though, much to your relief. If he pressed his advantage, you could imagine yourself folding like a house of cards.

The small dining hall has its spread already, and the twins have been working their way through it for a while. Rose is sitting at the head of the table, casually bold, while Dave sits on the corner of the table itself, eating cinnamon sweet loaf by tearing bites of it away and dipping them into the soft butter.

“Is this what you get up to unsupervised?” you ask as soon as you’re in earshot. You pick Dave up under the elbows, lower him to the ground.

“Pretty much,” Dave mutters, but takes his seat before dipping another chunk of bread into the butter.

Rose smiles. “We’ve been in dire need of guidance. How lucky we are that you’ve returned.”

You lean on the arm of her chair and kiss her atop her hair, and whisper, “Must you shield all your kindness with a sardonic tongue?”

“It’s not a shield, but a sword, thank you,” she says primly. “Have some breakfast. You must be very tired.”

Well. Yesterday had been very long, yes. You decide that is what she means, and take your own seat, watching Dirk sit across from you.

You’ve only just poured tea when the esteemed spymaster whirls in. “Mornin’, or afternoon, whichever,” Roxy says, and takes the exact perch Dave has vacated, plucking up a plum from the fruit platter and taking a knife. “Can’t stay long, I’ve got some infernal debts to settle after all those boons we spent up. We got more arrivals from the north, but the bulk of our people are still a week out at least. Generals are posturin’ like they’re going to kick up a fuss, but they’re privately happy to finally be out of Prospit. Been a long, hot summer.”

“If only we’d known all these years,” you say softly, “that the downfall of Derse would be decent weather.”

Roxy waggles her knife at you before cutting the flesh of her plum neatly. “We’ll have this talk when winter comes, sunspark, see how fast your mouth runs then.”

“You can always put on more clothes. At some point, you’re down to your skin, and that makes armor a trick to manage, doesn’t it?”

She pushes a slice into her mouth, painted lips splitting into a grin. “A whole company of Derse soldiers in naught but their dignity. Sounds like one hell of tactic to me.”

Dave groans, putting his head down on the table.

“Dirk, you’re rather quiet, and about military matters no less,” Rose says, tilting her head at her older brother with a facade of concern on her face. “You seem tired. Did something disturb your sleep?”

You choke on a mouthful of tea as across from you, Dirk stills with his fork halfway to his lips.

Roxy snorts loudly, and grabs another plum, shoving it into her pocket. “Amazing.” She blows a kiss to Rose before sweeping out of the room as swiftly as she arrived.

Dave lifts his head, frowning around the table. “What is going on?” There is a distinct whine in his voice.

“I’ll tell you when you’re older,” Rose chirps before you can get a word in edgewise.

“I’m older than you! By ten minutes!”

“Girls mature faster.”

“Princess,” Dirk murmurs quietly.

“Rose,” you add, sighing and rubbing your face. She only gives you a pleased look, and you’ve missed it so much, you find all your ire drains out of you before you can work up any more. “Be nice,” you manage.

Dave looks between you both. “You’re acting weird,” he announces. His eyes narrow on you. “That’s Dirk’s shirt.”

Rose dissolves into tittering laughter. You find you’re suddenly full, completely full and likely to never be hungry again, yes, and stand up. “Well, I should go… see to that. I’ll see you at dinner, be good.”

“I’ll come with you,” Dirk says, immediately abandoning his own setting and following you. Behind you, you hear Rose cackling in a way more befitting her older sister, and Dave testily asking her what’s so funny.

You wait until you’re out of the dining hall before shooting Dirk an acidic look.

He is unphased. “Are you angry?” he asks softly.

“I… No, I just feel like I’ve mistakenly fed a stray cat who won’t stop following me.”

He slows, dropping away from your side. “If you prefer--”

Already, he is worried. You reach back, take his hand. “Let’s…” You cast around for the right thing as Dirk watches you. “Take a walk with me?”

You offer your arm, and see the small realization on his face. This moment, but almost a year ago. There is a slight hesitation there, the memory of when you didn’t know how to handle the coldhearted yet demanding Prince of Derse, were ready to bed him for what he could give you.

Everything, changed by time and this small spark nurtured to fire.

He joins you, arm threading through yours, still looking a little mystified by it all, like he can’t fathom you being here.

“Do you have to… see to things? The things Roxy mentioned?” You keep your voice pitched low, as if his duties might overhear and leap upon him from the shadows.

“Hm, no. I will, but if things required my immediate attention, she would have said. I have time for you.” His thumb strokes your hand slowly. “Could we… would you come with me?”

The familiarity of it is so strange. You might even take a similar path from before, down to the lower level and around the long curved corridor that encapsulates the courtyard. You get the idea before he even opens the door for you, and while you wish you’d had the chance to retrieve a coat beforehand, you take to the autumn air, holding out your hand until Dirk takes it again.

He does, the warmest thing you have to cling to right now. You refuse to complain about the chill just yet, though, just let him lead you past the scattered seating, the open area he uses for his sparring, and into the copse of trees, clustered dark and deep.

You don’t know when the last time he took this path was, having never spotted him disappearing into the trees from your window, but he still clearly knows it well. You follow his steps as best you can, footfalls matching his to avoid the less hospitable bits over undergrowth in the way.

He holds a branch out of your way so you can emerge and stand upright, in the little not-quite-clearing in the middle. Here, it’s much darker, with the trees blocking much of the daylight, though the shafts of light that make it through are bright and lovely. It’s less intimidating than the last you were here. You wonder if that’s an effect of the day or of time.

The ornately carved bench beckons, and you sit, putting your hands between your knees to warm them. As soon as Dirk notices, he takes them both, breathes against your fingers, and presses them with his.

“It’s too cold for sentimentality,” Dirk says apologetically.

“I can survive a few minutes.” You squeeze his hands lightly. “This is where you come for… nightmares, and for privacy, if I recall.”

He nods. “I want to… talk.”

Silence stretches, as Dirk strokes your knuckles and stares at your hands. His pale pallor looks nearly sunbleached white against your darker skin. You admit you find it captivating too, but not enough to let the quiet sit so long.

“Dirk,” you prompt.

“I did mean it. It’s foolish and not something a person in my position should say, but I would… give you anything you desired. But I can’t send you home. Do you understand that?”

“I did when I climbed on your horse,” you inform him gently. “I love Prospit. I think I always will. But there… was no place for me there. Nothing but a lonely life on an island.” You inhale deeply. “I think… here, I can be more than a spare heir who puts his Queen at risk.”

Dirk lets out a hard breath. “The, ah. The entrance from the stairs was certainly not the kindest thing you’ve done for her. Though if you hadn’t, who knows where we’d be.”

“Warmer places, by the ocean,” you say truthfully.

He lifts his eyes to yours, solemn.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you tell him. His face is as warm as his hands, and you trace his furrowed brow with one finger. “You asked me once if I was unhappy here.”

“You said no,” Dirk says. “But before--”

“Here,” you tell him, cutting him off curtly, “I have tempestuous children to dote on and a _very_ good friend who indulges my wanderlust whenever I ask, and. You.” His eyes turn so hopeful, you can’t help but smile. “I’ll miss it. And I’ll… always be Prospitan. I’ll always regret how things went. However.” You tap his temple, narrowing your eyes at him over your glasses. “I made a choice. If you try to _spare_ me from my own decision again, Dirk, I swear--” You take another deep breath, forcing your voice to remain steady. “I am still learning how to… want things. To _say_ what I want. To not just sit around and hope someone will take the bloody _hint_ ,” you shoot him a little glare, “and put me out of my misery.”

Dirk blinks and his mouth forms a little _oh_ of surprise. “I didn’t realize. Though this, erm, new tactic of yours is… helping. I’m not really used to a direct approach, but.”

“Well,” you say darkly, “thanks to my _indirect_ approaches, I nearly lost everything I’d come to care for. It’s a singularly motivating event, let me tell you.” Dirk nods slowly, eyes a little wide. You lift your eyebrows. “Is that a problem? The-- forthrightness?”

“No. Whatever-- however you want to do… this. I’m willing, and at your service.”

Even now, you can feel the twitch in his hands, the slight tremor to him. You’re sure it’s not from the cold. Even here, there is a tentativeness to Dirk. He’s so still, so bloody careful.

Scared, maybe.

You run your thumb over his face, under his eye, against the scattering of freckles there. “Your Majesty,” you say softly. “May I kiss you?”

This close, you can see how his pupils contract, the minute way he parts his lips to breathe. He nods, and you lean in, holding him there as you meet his mouth softly, watching his eyes slide shut.

After the night before, it’s strangely delicate. The slow sliding touch, his tongue dragging along your lower lip, deeper, but slow as slumber.

Parting, Dirk rests his forehead against yours, shaking a little. His hands run up your arms to hold your biceps. You smile. “I love you, you know. Even when you drive me mad. Maybe especially. You do it a lot.”

His eyes flutter open, then widen. “Jake.”

“There is a _strange_ thrill to honesty, I must say,” you add jovially. “Like the first breath of air after a long dive.”

“You do?” Dirk asks, a second behind you, looking lost and vulnerable and so, so far from the stonehearted man you’ve seen in his place. Both of them fit the same shape, but this man, desperate and hungry and sweet, is yours, you think.

You have always wanted something of your own. It just took a rather long time to sort out _what_ that was.

In that secret place in the heart of Derse, you kiss him until he starts to believe you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, all. For the support and enthusiasm and feedback. Thanks to Loft for being with me every step of the way with this and for the smooch art (tumblr post [here](http://crabwings.tumblr.com/post/151910926529/illustration-for-the-final-chapter-of-a-spark-a), and everyone on the Discord for their help.
> 
> If you'd like to find me on tumblr, I'm callmearcturus there too. If you'd like more DirkJake goodness, I invite you to keep an eye out for my next AU. (Already know what it's gonna be. 8D ) If you'd like to watch out for more from _this_ universe, I highly rec subscribing to the Series, because uumiho has something in store to continue the story of this messed up royal family and their beloved companion.
> 
> Special shout out to [nightlydreamer for making me cry with this piece from the very end of the last chapter](http://nightlydreamer.tumblr.com/post/151904020410/you-feel-wrapped-up-stolen-away-can-you-still-be). And **finally** if you are like me and enjoy fic playlists, [I got you covered](http://callmearcturus.tumblr.com/post/151863276415/callmearcturus-a-house-of-cards-all-suited-hearts). I have made at least three people Very Emotional with it, so I think it's p good.
> 
> And thank you, dirkar, for giving me the go ahead for this project. 8)
> 
> See you next time, true believers!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Crown of Lead](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8431330) by [sburbanite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sburbanite/pseuds/sburbanite)




End file.
